“All right,” I said to the skinny girl in the mirror. “You can do this.”
Something was missing. I looked myself up and down in the mirror’s reflection and decided it was lipstick I needed. I pulled out the brightest red from the counter mess and painted my pursed lips in the mirror.
“Oh, yeah,” I said with a grin. “He’s toast.”
I flipped the TV off and grabbed my leather jacket from one of the chairs near the window before double-checking that I had all my necessities: phone, wallet, keys, lipstick, pocket knife. I left the hotel room a mess and headed down to the lobby.
About halfway through the bright, high-ceilinged room, Steve appeared from out of the tiny gift shop with a plastic bag. He was older than me but athletic and good-natured, and I hadn’t seen him since we checked in yesterday. He’d been sick on the plane something fierce, but at least his face had some color now. His eyes widened as I approached.
“Holy shit,” he said. “You look great. DTF for sure.”
“Oh, fuck you,” I said with a flip of my middle finger.
“No, fuck him,” said Steve, pointing his finger up and over my head. I turned to look at the giant flat screen TV hanging over the fireplace. Another commercial for that story about Noah Hardy blared with a still photo of the rock star, his shirtless, tattooed chest exposed as he screamed like a banshee into a microphone at some concert.
“Yeah, right,” I said absently. “So, what’s the deal, are you feeling better? You still look a little queasy.” We ignored the businessmen and tourist families moving around us as we spoke.
Steve gave an earnest shrug and held up the plastic bag from the gift shop. “Better, but still bad enough I needed this. I think I’d just be holding you back if I came out with you tonight.”
I bit my lip, concerned. “I’d hate to miss an opportunity if it comes along…”
“So don’t,” said Steve. “You don’t have to wait for me to get this started. I’m basically back-up, right?”
I pulled out a piece of paper from my jacket pocket and made him take a picture of it with his phone. “I went around to some of the record shops today and did some asking. Took me a few hours, but I’ve got a couple different sources that think Noah and Duke are both in town, roaming around, but the others haven’t been spotted.”
Steve made a thinking noise as he overlooked the list of clubs I had given him. “They could just be trying to impress a pretty girl.”
“It would not be the dumbest thing a man has done to impress me,” I said, and meant it. “Nevertheless, there are enough similarities in the stories that my gut tells me it’s worth checking out.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“One of the record store owners says he’s heard Noah’s looking for new band members, scouting out his old hardcore haunts, and the like. A couple other dudes said they’ve seen him at shows in the last two weeks, so it seems like a safe bet to get out to some and see if I can’t stumble across him.”
Steve nodded and put his phone in his pocket. “That’s good. That’s clean. Doesn’t sound like me spending the night with some room service and Pepto Bismol is going to slow you down even a little.”
I shrugged. “I am pretty good at what I do.”
“And I must give the obligatory dude speech of ‘please don’t get yourself into trouble…’ ”
I held up a palm and shoved it slowly onto Steve’s mouth until he was muttering gibberish and half-smiling underneath it. “No, you mustn’t, unless you want some trouble yourself. I’ll check in with you tomorrow and see how you’re feeling, tell you how the night went.”
“Knock ‘em dead, Laurel,” said Steve. He clapped a friendly hand on my shoulder and headed for the elevators.
I growled as I slumped into the driver’s seat of my rental car. It took me two tries to get the key in the unfamiliar ignition, but once I did the car flooded with warmth and made me feel a little better. I hadn’t even been in the Funhouse long enough to let the engine cool off, despite the chilly, wet Seattle night. The car smelled like pine and moss, a combination that surprisingly sent a feeling of calm through my nerves. With eyes closed, it was easy to imagine I was out in the middle of some quiet forest, instead of idling in a dive bar parking lot after a night of failure.
I pulled the list of clubs from my pocket and used a red sharpie to make an X next to the Funhouse. Strike seven. I’d paid over a hundred bucks already in cover charges and overpriced drinks and I was still no closer to finding Noah Hardy. All the chatter about him or Duke being in town was suddenly gone, and I found myself wondering if I was chasing ghosts out here.
There were only two more clubs on my list. The list was rated purely by proximity to the hotel, starting close and working my way out to the edges and suburbs of Seattle. The next on the list, the Horned Goat, already had a question mark next to it. I hadn’t been able to find a working phone number for the place and so suspected it was closed, joining many other independent clubs and bars that were folding under gentrification in this city.
The last bar on the list was the Graveyard Club, and its address wasn’t even in Seattle. It was in some place called Thornwood. My phone GPS put the drive at twenty minutes.
Tonight had already been such a disappointing bust that I decided to hell with the Horned Goat. If they couldn’t have a working phone, then I wasn’t even going to waste the time.
The Graveyard Club would, appropriately, be my last stop for the night.
With the help of the GPS, I drove Seattle’s winding, dark streets until the city was just a distant silhouette in my rear view. The highway exit to Thornwood came out of the depths of the pine forests like a surprise. It was a pretty cute little place in that shiny Americana way, but to be honest, everywhere in the northwest felt like an episode of Twin Peaks to me. The whole place felt haunted, dark, mysterious—and I loved it. So all I could think about behind the pretty storefronts and normal people were their secrets. We all had them, didn’t we? But something about this place made it feel like it would help you hide them.
It was in a seedier part of town that the Graveyard Club finally appeared, a gray, two-story building on a dangerous curve of road, nestled among the dark pines. The building looked like it had been around since the twenties, but without the care and upkeep of some of the other historical sites. Someone had painted the front side of it a sloppy black, then over that, in the same messy strokes, painted the club’s name in enormous letters I could see from twenty yards away.
The gravel lot was strewn with vehicles, so I pulled in carefully and took a quick look around after I killed the engine. A glance in the visor mirror made me touch up my lipstick with a heavy sigh. “If he’s not here, I’m getting drunk.”
The building thrashed with the sound of some seriously heavy music coming from inside that was loud even before I stepped out of the car. Each crunch of gravel under my boots lit my nerves up again, like earlier, back at the hotel. The failed search had turned my anxiety into boredom, but now it was coming back with a vengeance. I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets and tried to ignore it, head high, as I stepped into the Graveyard Club.
The hardcore music hit me in the face first thing, speakers blaring, shaking the walls. A fat, pale guy in a black t-shirt sat, bored, on a stool three sizes too small for him. I tried not to roll my eyes when he gave me a suggestive smile. Over the deafening music, he signaled for my ID, but when I gave it to him all I could focus on was his gross, sweaty palm beneath mine as he stamped my hand. I tossed him the required five dollar cover charge so I didn’t have to touch him again and hurried to the bar. I definitely needed a shot after that.
Like many of the other city dives, this place was dark, dirty, and had a smattering of schizophrenic décor gathering dust. Decades of scuff marks from people and equipment pocked the black-and-white tile floor. The club space was sort of split in half, with the bar and tables off to my left, and the stage and open crowd areas to the right. A few ratty b
ooths lined the outer wall, most of which were vacant. A small group of dedicated moshers were going crazy in front of the stage, pushing each other in a circle pit. To an outsider, this ritual looked crazy, but it was just smoke and mirrors: no one was ever out to hurt anyone in a pit. It was good, old-fashioned daredevilry. And there was nothing like watching a good mosh pit to get my blood going. I stepped up to the bar with an eye on the crowd.
A grizzled old dude with waist-length, salt and pepper hair came up after a few moments. His face was weathered but smiling, eyes betraying he had probably just been blazing a joint in the back room. He leaned over the counter and shouted at me in a practiced voice, “Hi, darlin’! What can I get for you?”
“Shot of Jameson and a pint,” I shouted back over the music, to which he replied with the “okay” sign. Watching his tan, tattooed arms work, I had a feeling the Metallica shirt with the cut-off sleeves he was wearing was a straight-up original he’d gotten in the 80s, and it made me smile.
The Jameson burned softly down my throat as I scanned around the room, ready to be disappointed and, eventually, drunk. The lights near the stage strobed and swung, making it difficult to really get a handle on anyone’s face, at least until the band stopped and sets changed.
The old bartender returned with my beer and a smile. I took a big drink and looked back toward the crowd. The band wasn’t bad, young guys probably just starting out on the local circuit, but something about them had the crowd going pretty fierce for a tiny underground show. This wasn’t a show for the suburbanites, the ones who pay triple digits for nosebleed seats every five years when Neil Diamond comes to town. This was a place for the loyal dogs.
It was halfway through my beer when I spotted him in the mosh pit. Really, it was a fucking wonder I hadn’t seen him the second I opened the door to the club. Say what you want about the dude’s reputation or his music—but Noah Hardy is a built, attractive man that stands out in a crowd. Like a wolf among lap dogs.
Noah Hardy, the world-famous rock star. The bad boy. The drunk-in-public, fight-picking, womanizing lead vocalist of Cut Up Angels, right here, ten feet from me in some hometown mosh pit.
The light glowed across his bare chest and shoulders, exposing his tattoos in little swatches, like works of art being uncovered from the dark. Sweat coated his skin, making his muscles glisten. With his strawberry blonde hair and shaggy beard, his firm muscles, and his whittled waist, he looked like some gorgeous Irish bareknuckle boxer. Like he belonged in some tougher, more violent century.
Good God, he was the hottest fucking thing I had ever seen in my life.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen Noah before. I’d been to his shows, of course—who hadn’t, at this point? But this was something else. I felt like I was seeing him naked. As he raged in the mosh pit with the rest of the hardcore crowd, it was like I was privy to some intensely private side of Noah Hardy that I hadn’t even known existed.
When the festival news hit, so did the public speculation. Because Noah had bona fide baller status, most assumed he and the others had jetted off to some private sunny resort to wait out the storm. But that hadn’t felt right to me. The looks I got from around the room when I spoke it out loud almost gave me pause, but I held the line and asked for a flight to Seattle. Something in my gut told me that, in this darkest time, Noah Hardy was going to run home. And I had been right.
How had I known that?
I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off him as he shoved and pulled his way through the band’s set. If anyone in the crowd knew who he was, no one seemed to care or pay him special mind. Just like everyone else in the pit, he got pushed, and he got helped back up if he lost his footing. Watching his firm body move in the strobing lights, hearing the primal pounding of the drums… it was all getting my heart pumping in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Anxiety was quickly being replaced with something hotter, and in that moment, I felt ten years younger.
I finished my beer in two huge swallows and immediately ordered another round. My gaze drifted away from the mosh pit, but not without a fight. I tried to stare at the bottles lined in a row against an old dirty glass mirror behind the bar. Tried counting them, reading the tiny print on the labels, anything to keep me from looking back over at Noah in the crowd. His mind-numbing hotness notwithstanding, I had a goddamn job to do. I spent all night hunting him down, and here he was. I couldn’t blow it now.
“This is our last fucking song,” yelled the band’s vocalist into the mic.
Shit, of course it was. That meant I had two, maybe three minutes to figure out how I was going to make this approach. Several plans were on the table, but things like this were like going into a war zone—you just never knew what it was going to look like until you got dropped in the middle of it. The rumors had told me Noah was looking to recruit a new band—a fitting sign that Cut Up Angels might actually be done with thanks to this new scandal. Introducing myself to Noah as a potential replacement musician had been plan A.
But he didn’t look like he was recruiting tonight. He just looked like a regular dude, enjoying a show. Plan A now looked weird, paranoid; he’d wonder where I had heard the rumors about recruiting, why I was asking. This would be over before it began.
So I guess I just needed to look like a regular chick, enjoying a show, too.
In that case…
I turned back toward the stage. Hell, maybe I would even enjoy myself for real tonight. The pit had died, but the vocalist was in the audience now, and a handful of dudes—including Noah—were gathered around him in a huddle, screaming lyrics into the mic together, butting heads and sweating all over each other. Sweat dripped down Noah’s back tattoos and disappeared down his tight black jeans. Heat rumbled inside me, and I tried to quench it quickly with a swig of beer. Noah Hardy was supernatural levels of hot. Suddenly all I could think about was running my hands up the taut muscles of his back.
The song came to a smash-cut end, and the crowd erupted into howls and clapping. House lights flicked on, and somebody turned on an old Fugazi album as background music.
My eyes were still on Noah when he came out of his show trance and started heading toward the bar, where he had left his shirt in a crumpled black heap next to a half-finished beer. The shirt and beer I was slowly realizing I had sat next to when I came in.
Well, shit.
He came around the corner of the bar and stopped for a moment, looking at me. At first it was surprise on his face, like he hadn’t expected to see anybody when he looked up. But surprise quickly melted into something else—something softer. I watched his eyes as his gaze ran slowly, painfully slowly, down the length of my body and back up to my face. They stayed there, locked on my red lips, and he licked his own as if he were imagining them.
A sexual spark lit between my legs. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone looked at me that way—let alone a man as gorgeous as Noah Hardy. I smiled back at him reflexively.
As he took the last few steps toward me in a much more confident, cocky stride, I realized with a sudden mix of terror and excitement that I had just given myself my “in” to get close to Noah. It hadn’t been my plan—it was never my plan, for this or any job. It was bad form, not my style, but Noah—here’s a guy who was used to taking any woman he wanted backstage and having his way with her.
Judging by the look on his face, tonight, that woman was me.
~ THREE ~
Noah
Sometimes it feels like I don’t have a shred of fucking luck left in my miserable life. But other times, it feels just the opposite. Maybe I was just desperate for some luck to count this as a win. Maybe it was just the leftover adrenaline and oxytocin from moshing my fucking heart out to some juicy underground hardcore, giving me a natural high. Maybe I just wanted to lie to myself to get out from under the pile of hot garbage that was my life outside of this club.
But I didn’t expect to come out of the pit and find her sitting there, like she was waiting for me. I didn�
�t know who she was, never seen her gorgeous face before in my life, but for a split second, I actually had this thought that someone had pulled the image of the perfect hardcore girl right out of my brain and brought her to life. And here she was, sitting at the bar of the Graveyard Club, eating me up with her eyes. She gave me a shy smile and turned back to her drink, and I took that as a challenge.
I pushed my sweaty hair out of my face and came up to the bar where I’d left my stuff. I kept my eyes on her as I grabbed the half-full stein of draught and drank it down in two thirsty gulps. I never took my eyes off her, watching, hoping to catch a glimpse of her checking me out. A side-eye sneak.
Groupies, they ran right up to you. There was no game in it, no challenge. It was like filling up a plate from a buffet and hoping none of it was left out too long to give you food poisoning. They served a purpose, sure, but who wants to eat at a buffet all the time?
This woman, she wasn’t that. I was almost sure she recognized me, but she wasn’t a groupie. Not a chance. This one wanted to be hunted.
Lucky for her, I’m one hell of a hunter. And I don’t mind chasing down my dinner.
Kevin saw me sit down and immediately put another full beer in front of me like the champ he is. Then he glanced over to the beauty at my left and asked her if she needed another.
“Get her whatever she wants for the rest of the night,” I answered. “On my tab.”
She gave me that side glance I was waiting for, that sassy, non-committal interest that made my dick twitch in my jeans. Her pouty, gorgeous red lips twisted into a smirk. To Kevin, she said, “Shot of Jameson and another pint, please.”
Fuck, even her drink order was hot. Kevin put the shot down on the counter and she threw it back without a hitch. I took another glance down her body, not bothering to hide my interest. She was skinny, but still had a nice, plump pair of tits that I couldn’t wait to put in my mouth. More interesting at that moment was the shirt she wore.
Unplugged: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance Page 2