Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  So valiant.

  So considerate.

  So ... hot.

  Marisa laughs. “Yeah, sure you didn’t. And you’re not still wearing his T-shirt either.”

  “What? I like it. It’s a nice shirt.”

  She quirks an eyebrow. “It says Orgasm Donor on it.”

  Unwilling to cave, I casually sip my coffee. The clean, masculine scent of this shirt is blowing my mind a little bit. It’s been so long since I’ve been wrapped in something that smells this delicious that I’m in no rush to take it off. I may be celibate, but I’m not dead.

  I jump off the stool to pour myself a second cup of coffee, although I don’t need it. For some reason, I’m wired. My pulse is racing so fast it feels like I just ran a marathon. “You guys never ... you know … did you?”

  “No, we never hooked up.”

  Still facing the countertop, the breath I was holding slowly trickles out. Why do I care if they hooked up? I’m not planning to date him. It’s not as if I dreamed about licking the sweat off his pecs all night. Nope. Not once did I imagine how his scruff would tickle my skin as his lips roamed my body. Nuh-uh. And by no means did I wake up thinking about his smoldering gray eyes and wide, sexy grin, either. Absolutely not.

  Marisa saunters up next to me and leans on the countertop; her mug dangles from the crook of her index finger, waiting for a refill. “It’s not from lack of trying, though. Believe me.”

  An unexpected pang of jealousy stabs me in the stomach. “He asked you out?”

  “No.” She snorts. “I’ve made a few innuendos; he turned me down, so I stopped. No use pumping a dry well, right? Besides, I think you’re more his type.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Honey, you’re everybody’s type. Besides, I caught him checking out your back end last night.”

  A flush creeps up my face so fast I feel it in my ears. As much as I’d love to deny it, AJ’s gotten in my head. Something about the brooding, musical type sets my thighs on fire, but there’s more to him than that. I can feel it. Unfortunately, the guys I’m into only end up breaking my heart. Sometimes worse.

  I lean over the bar, wrenching my neck, trying to hear the guy in front of me shout out his order. Bar lights glint off the metal in his face, making it hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. The distortion blasting from the stage is giving me a headache. It’s so angry. How do people listen to this crap without completely losing their minds?

  He shouts his order again, never taking his eyes off my breasts as he does so. My hand travels to the barely there neckline on my Wreck Me tank. Frankie D. presented me with a couple of new ones at the start of my shift. As far as this thing goes, I have two options: either pull the strings on the front super tight, which pushes my chest up and out, or leave them loose and expose more cleavage than I’m interested in showing at this stage of my life. Either way, I’m showing off the goods, and the metal heads are noticing.

  The Wreck is slammed. Sweaty bodies press up against each other, writhing and smashing with wild delirium. I never realized how animated a rock crowd was. I grew up listening to country greats like Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings with my gran. They crooned into their microphones, strumming their guitars and telling a story. Music shouldn’t make you want to bang your head. It should uplift your soul.

  “Thank you! Good night!” shouts the singer. He looks old and tired. As if he wasted his entire youth living the rock star fantasy only to end up in a crappy tribute band on a bar stage in New Jersey. Dressed in head-to-toe leather and studs, he looks like he belongs in a biker gang more than a rock group. Tonight’s headliner called themselves Painkiller. I’m told they’re a Judas Priest Tribute band. Whoever that is.

  When the lights go on, everyone winces and shields their faces, dispersing into the dark night like vampires escaping the dawn. AJ rises from the board, scratching under his hat as he goes, leaving it slightly off kilter. He takes the seat behind the drum kit. Counting out beats with the shafts of his sticks ... one, two, three, four … he crashes them down on the set around him. Even from here, in the dim light of the bar, I can see his eyes are closed. Sweat flies all over; biceps bulge under his skin with each slam of the sticks.

  My knowledge of rock music isn’t much, but what I do know is AJ commands that stage. He wails, fast and angry, not only controlling the band, but my heartbeat as well. I pause with an empty tray of glasses in my hands, body tingling as I watch. I’m stuck. Fixated on the beast beating the hell out of the kit and holding me hostage with his talent.

  By the time he’s finished, I can barely breathe. I’m supposed to hate musicians. The whole institution of show business is built on nothing but bullshit, but something about him captivates me. So much is hiding beneath the surface. He’s shown me a little taste of what’s deep inside, and now, I’m hungry for more.

  A smile stretches across his face when he catches me watching. I drop my gaze and begin wiping the counter, but it’s pointless. I’ve been caught. He moves from the drum kit and goes back to his work. His arms move fluidly, stretching out the power cables and then wrapping them into neat coils with his hands. It’s a small, subtle movement, hardly one worth noticing. Something about the way they glide through his hands, like he takes so much pride in the littlest task. It’s a rare trait for men these days.

  A handful of women loiters about. Their over-the-top giggling bounces off the wooden walls and ceiling. They’re trying like hell to get his attention, but his eyes focus on me. I don’t have to look up to know. I can feel it. The weight of his stare gets heavier as he comes closer, and the air in the bar thickens.

  “Can I get a beer?”

  A tiny bead of sweat travels down his neck, and for a split second, I wonder what it would taste like on my tongue. His damp shirt clings to his frame just enough to remind me what’s underneath and jack my pulse. This week, a cave man graces the front with the words ‘I Swing Big Wood’ written across his broad chest. I’m starting to notice a pattern.

  “Nice shirt,” I say, continuing to run the towel over the bar top. The corners of my mouth twist up in defiance of my brain. His vulgar collection of tees doesn’t repulse me the way it should. It's almost as if he's overcompensating. Beneath that cocky attitude, something else is lurking. I see it inside his soulful eyes.

  “You too. You look good dry.”

  He raises his hand to grab the bill of his ball cap with his thumb and pointer then uses the remaining fingers to scratch his scalp. A small jagged scar disappears into the thick mop of raven hair he'd been hiding underneath.

  Dropping the hat back in place, he plops on the barstool at his feet. I set a beer down in front of him and try not to notice how utterly kissable his lips are as he brings the bottle to his mouth. “So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  I arch a brow, waiting for the punch line. Did he seriously hit me with another cheesy pickup line? “You think you’re pretty smooth, don’t you?”

  “Lil’ bit.” When he grins, I actually feel it slithering up the backs of my knees.

  Do not let this guy under your skin, Case.

  “What kind of girl am I?”

  He leans over the bar and peers down at my feet. “The kind of girl who wears cowgirl boots and rhinestone jeans to a heavy metal club. You’re too damn sweet to be around so much debauchery.”

  “Maybe I’m not as sweet as you think,” I reply, re-wiping the already clean bar top. In addition to the black ball cap, he’s still wearing the same perfect stubble as last weekend. Surrounded by all that darkness, his gray eyes stand out, capturing me like a fly in a web.

  His fingers close around my wrist, bringing my incessant wiping to a halt. I'm certain he felt the jump in my pulse. “You’re gonna clean a hole right through the counter, cowgirl.”

  I swallow hard. The intense beating of my heart could headline the next show. A burning tingle shoots up my bicep and spreads throughout my body, starting at the exact spot his
rough hand remains clutching my arm. Whether it’s from my attraction to him, or the fact that I haven’t felt a man’s touch in over five years, I can’t say, but I suddenly have the same dizzy feeling you get when you stand up too fast after sitting for a while.

  “It’s late. I should get home.” The quiver in my voice is a dead giveaway. My nerves are wound so tight I feel as if I'm about to burst. I can't remember the last time a man elicited this kind of reaction from me with just the touch of his hand, and it's only on my arm.

  His grasp tightens as I turn to leave. As strong as he is, his grip, while firm, is still so gentle. He could easily squeeze hard, leaving a mark like a possessive alpha male, but he doesn't, and I know he won’t.

  “Or maybe it’s early. Depends on how you look at it.” When I meet his gaze, a touch of sadness behind his steel eyes stops my flight and keeps my feet rooted to the sticky floor.

  Marisa crashes in through the doors from the back room. The blue neon lights from the bar catch her red hair, shrouding her in a purple glow. AJ's hand slides off my arm, but it doesn’t matter. I still feel it there, scorching my skin and making it hard to breathe. "Am I interrupting a moment?"

  "Nope." AJ brings the bottle to his lips again but stops just shy of them. "Casey was just about to give me her phone number.”

  “Was I.” It’s a statement, not a question. AJ’s self-confidence is starting to crowd the empty room. This kind of bravado may work on the bar flies, but I know all about guys like him. Sexy and charming are a poisonous combination, the likes of which I am now immune.

  AJ sets a single finger on the face of his phone and slides it to my side of the bar. His hand looks beat up, like an old saddle—not pretty to look at, but nothing feels as perfect between your legs. The thought of AJ's hands on my body instantly excites me. Judging by the crowd of women always around him, I have a hunch those hands are skilled in many ways.

  I scowl at his phone as Missy scurries around me to start our side work for the night. I don’t have time for this. I’m here to work, not give hot guys my number. “See you next week, AJ.”

  “Night, Frankie; night, Bits.”

  I wave to the guys as I walk past, with my purse slung over my shoulder and my opposite hand mindlessly smoothing the ends of my hair. AJ left not long after I deflected his advance. It will be a whole week until I see him again. With any hope, that gives him time to move on and my libido a chance to mellow out. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My taste in men has always been shit. If there's a loser within ten miles of me, that's the guy I want. I always did love a project.

  I push the thought out of my head as I fling open the door and step out into the sultry spring night. The sky is so clear, lit up by a bright, full moon and millions of glittering stars overhead. This kind of night makes me long for the ranch, sitting on the porch drinking sweet tea with Austin. Sometimes, I sit out on the rickety fire escape, wishing I’d made better choices. That I’d never been swept up in Davis’s promises of neon dreams and the thrill of the big city and had married Austin instead. He loved me, and I know he would have made sure we had a nice life together. Unfortunately, I just wasn’t ready for it.

  AJ leans against my car. Dressed in black from head to toe, he fades into the dark night. The tip of his cigarette glows bright orange when he brings it to his lips and inhales, before tipping his head back to blow the stream into the air. It curls around his lips as he watches me approach, gray eyes shining in the silver moonlight. “I’d offer you a cigarette, but you’re already smokin’ hot.”

  “Those things will kill you.” I stop in front of him, resting my hand on my hip. My heart continues its relentless pounding, and his gaze drops to the open ties in the front of my tank.

  He pulls the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers. I watch the ash whirl in the breeze before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it with the sole of his boot. “I’ve lived through worse.”

  “I’m sure you have. Good night.”

  AJ slides closer to the handle as I reach for it. “I don’t bite. I only wanted your number.” The familiar scent of detergent, smoke, and masculinity floats off him, making it hard to think. I wore his T-shirt so much this week, the smell of him has started to evaporate from its fibers, and I've actually started to miss it.

  “What for?”

  He shrugs. “What if I have an emergency rum and Coke situation?”

  Don’t you dare smile at him.

  “If only there was a vast resource of information right at our very fingertips,” I chide, crossing my arms over my chest, holding back the smile threatening to crack my tough exterior. “Oh yeah, there is. It’s called the Internet.”

  His hand smacks his chest as if he’s been shot. “Beauty and brains? Looks like I hit the jackpot.”

  That line wins him a well-deserved eye roll. “What can I do to get you off my car?”

  He digs his phone from his pocket again and holds it up. “Ten little digits, cowgirl. That’s all I ask.”

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  I grab the phone from his hand, grazing his calloused fingertips in the process. Lord have mercy, they're as rough as they look. With trembling fingers, I type in my number and save it into his contacts. Getting involved with someone from work is a bad idea. My need for this job outweighs my need to know how those calloused fingers would feel trailing up my thigh.

  He slides the phone out of my hand, gives the screen a few quick swipes, and then slips it back into his pocket. My purse chirps a second later. The moonlight catches on his gleaming white grin, and I notice a tooth off to the side that’s slightly crooked. It's hardly noticeable. Something easily missed. But something about it still makes my heart jump. It makes him seem more real. Less perfect. It also makes him a little harder to resist.

  5

  AJ

  A rolling fog of steam floats from the crack in my bathroom door so thick I can barely see as I enter. The moisture in the air is heavy, beading up on the mirror and turning my reflection into blobs of unrecognizable black and tan. I walk toward the sound of running water. It’s so loud, pounding down on the tile like rain, beckoning to me, daring me to see who might be inside.

  The walk seems endless. My bare feet slide on the dense layer of condensation built up on the warm ceramic tile, but the faint outline of a female body through the tempered-glass door stops me in my tracks. It’s long and slender, a dancer’s body. She moves and sways, lifting her arms above her head, letting the water roll over the delicate curves of her chest and hips. In one seamless movement, her hands glide through her wet hair, run over her breasts, and skim down her taut stomach.

  I move in even closer, my need to see who the mystery woman in my shower is outweighing the blatant crossing of boundaries. A petite hand touches the glass. I lay my hand over it a split second before she pulls it away. The figure vanishes, replaced by a blinding light. I shield my face, but it’s too late.

  The door explodes. Shards of glass shatter all around me, scratching my eyes and scattering in my hair. The force blows me off my feet. I open my mouth to scream for help, but it, too, fills with glass, tearing up my tongue and destroying my throat. I can’t speak, I can’t see, and the water continues to beat down on the ground fast and hard, echoing in my ears, making the pain in my head unbearable. My arm hangs uselessly at my side, unable to wipe away the blood I feel pouring over my face. Sirens and shouting, the deafening sound of metal tearing metal … then nothing but darkness.

  I sit up in my bed, gasping for air. My fingers spring to my wet hair, tracing the scar that recedes into my hairline, but when I pull them back, it’s only sweat. There’s no blood. There’s no glass. It was a dream.

  With my heart still in my throat, I blink the remainder of the nightmare from my vision. The accident. Once upon a time, the nightmares were so vivid and frequent it was like reliving it. Constantly, night after night, long after I recovered and returned to my normal life. Well, the new version of my n
ormal life.

  But it was years ago. Six years, to be exact. I was a stupid kid, angry and bitter. I let that anger consume me until I was just a shell of my former self. That AJ Morello died on the road. Reborn in his place was a guy with an arm that never quite worked the same way again and nightmares that continued to torment me long after I wake each morning. They said I was lucky to be alive. Sometimes, I’m not so sure.

  The chick in the shower is new, though no doubt influenced by a soaking wet cowgirl with killer legs and soft baby blues. I'd rather have that torturous cock-stiffening dream than the usual nightmare. Too many nights I've spent haunted by my baby sister's tears and apologies even though I was the one who fucked everything up.

  The seductive woman in my dream was someone else altogether. She moved in the shower slow and deliberate as if her body was calling out to me. I swear I heard her whisper my name as she touched herself. Maybe I just need to get laid.

  Too shaken to sleep, I light up a smoke and grab my phone. As memories of the dream start to subside, thoughts of Casey pop in front and center. Her heart-shaped lips, the way her eyes picked up the twinkle in the bar lights, and, for Christ’s sake, those dimples. I never considered myself a smile guy, but damn. The girl lights up the room by merely walking into it. Marisa said she doesn’t date, but I’m determined to put an end to that.

  I open my inbox and type in quick text.

  You must be exhausted from running through my mind all night.

  Smoke pirouettes from the end of the cigarette hanging from my lips, forcing me to squint one eye. Someday, I’ll live up to my promise to Jill and actually quit. But today isn’t that day.

  My heart jumps when my phone vibrates on my lap.