Brek moved to shake hands and smack the drummer on the back. Much better than his hand on Chelsea’s waistband. The guy handed him a guitar. Brek played a few chords.
He was pure rock ’n’ roll in that moment. Long hair, guitar strap around his neck, playing some song Velma recognized but couldn’t put her finger on. And when he glanced up and caught her looking? It felt like he played only for her.
She ripped her gaze away.
“Holy crap, he played that for you. Right in front of her.” Claire sucked in her bottom lip. “Like, right in front of his date.”
“He’s got an amazing voice.” Heather’s expression went dreamy. “We need to help him ditch her.”
Claire nodded in agreement. “Nicely, of course.”
Brek had stopped playing.
Velma couldn’t bring herself to look back to the stage. “This is ridiculous, he’s on a date. He doesn’t want an offer of bedroom benefits from me when he’s on a date.”
The waitress dropped three red plastic baskets filled with oversized hamburgers and fries on the table.
“This is a complication, that’s all.” Heather squirted ketchup on the waxed paper lining her basket.
“I should go home.” Velma couldn’t think about food right now. “Deflated” was the word of the night.
“No. It’s girls’ night. We’ll eat and go somewhere else. I’m thinking massages at that place in the mall.” Claire swirled her ketchup with a fry.
Velma held the burger to her lips and dropped it without taking a bite, her gaze shifting to Brek and Chelsea. He’d left the stage. Now he had his arms crossed, feet propped on a vacant stool, listening to something Chelsea said. Chelsea was a hand talker. It didn’t seem to bother Brek, but she’d better be careful or she’d knock over his Coors.
Velma’s chest rose and fell quickly. Fight or flight and no way was she taking on a biker babe.
“I need to use the ladies’ room.” Velma slid off the stool and headed down the hall leading to the bathrooms.
Get it together, Velma.
Brek was allowed to date. Of course he was. She just didn’t want a front-row seat.
An intoxicated guy poured himself from the men’s room, stumbling straight into her. He wobbled a finger in her direction, but even his finger wag looked drunk. “Watch your step, sweetie.”
She reached out to steady him when he tottered backward.
“Plans for tonight, muffin?” His drunkard smile looked more like a sneer.
“Yup.” She laughed what she hoped was a dismissive chuckle and turned on her heel to go back to the table, grab her friends, and get out of there.
The guy’s hands wrapped around her hips, twisted her, and he pulled her against his crotch.
“Stop.” She lurched forward to get away, but his fingertips ground in, holding her in place while he rubbed himself against her backside. The bile in her stomach curdled.
“Let go.” She steadied her breaths while she shoved at his hands. He gripped her harder. Her pulse sped, and she kicked at his shin with the heel of her shoe.
“You heard her.” Brek pushed past and wrapped his hand around drunk guy’s neck. Apparently, he squeezed, because the guy gasped for air, released his grip on her, and clawed at Brek’s hand.
He pushed forward, the idiot smashing against the Bud Light sign on the wall. Brek forced the guy’s chin in her direction. “See her?” Jaw tight, Brek jerked his head toward Velma.
Drunk guy nodded, his glazed eyes huge.
Well, huh. She had never had someone growl on her behalf before.
Brek slammed his palm against the wall next to the man’s face.
Velma jumped at the sound. “Brek, stop. You don’t need to hurt him.”
Brek ignored her.
“Brek. Let the guy go.” Chelsea sounded decidedly pissy that her date was taking time to defend Velma’s honor.
Honor that Velma was perfectly capable of defending herself with a strategically placed knee to the douchebag’s fly.
Brek ignored Chelsea, too.
“She’s a lady.” He got right up in the guy’s face. Deep down, Velma knew this wasn’t going to end well.
“Velma? Are you okay?” Heather shoved through the small crowd forming at the entrance to the hallway.”
“Velvet, let’s go.” Claire stood right beside Heather.
“Seriously, you have to stop.” Velma moved forward, but Brek stopped her with a furious glare.
Or, you know, she could just wait here.
Brek waited a beat and turned his face back to the squirming drunk in his grip. His nostrils flared. “I said, she’s a lady. You get that?”
Brek’s fingers still wrapped tight around the drunk’s throat, the guy nodded.
Sheesh, someone was actually going to get hurt. “Brek, you have to let him go,” Velma said with as much conviction as she could muster.
Brek ignored her, his face maliciously close to the other guy’s. “We need to talk more about how to treat a lady?”
Drunk dude’s eyes bugged to cartoon status. He shook his head.
Brek released his grip and patted him on the shoulder like they were old friends. “Then we’re done here. You okay, V?”
Velma shoved her hands onto her hips. No. She wasn’t okay. “I’m fine.”
Now free, the idiot made an attempt at a drunken fist, and, holy crud, he lunged at Brek. Velma pushed Brek out of the way.
A wild swing grazed her cheek. She dodged and fell to the floor with a very unladylike thunk. Pain radiated up through her shoulder. Crud, that hurt.
Brek twisted back to the guy.
Oh no. With the murder in Brek’s eyes, drunk guy didn’t stand a chance.
“Well, shit,” Chelsea said under her breath.
Before Velma could scramble to her feet, Brek had him pushed up against the wall again. “I guess the lesson wasn’t finished.”
Claire and Heather flanked Velma, pulling her backward.
“Brek. No,” she said with a gasp. “I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me.”
Too late. Brek raised his fist, and it connected to the other man’s face with a sickening thud. Blood spattered across the wall and onto Brek’s shirt. Drunk guy whimpered and slid to the ground.
Brek cussed a string of creatively combined curses. He curled his fist around the guy’s collar and yanked him back up. “You need more schooling? Or we done here?”
“Done,” he whimpered.
Well, thank goodness for small miracles. At least one of them was finished.
“What the hell?” the bartender yelled, pushing through the group of people. “You with this guy?” He glanced from Brek to Velma.
She opened her mouth to explain, but Brek got to it first.
“Yeah. She’s with me.” Brek spat the words.
“Wow, Brek. Nice.” Chelsea huffed and walked away.
Drunk guy stumbled, one hand against his nose, the other pointing to her. “They assaulted me. I’m pressing charges.”
The idiot could not be serious.
The bartender shifted uneasily. “We don’t need the cops involved.”
Blood flowed between the guy’s fingers. “They broke my nose.”
Brek grabbed napkins from the wait station and threw them so they rained down all around the bleeding jerk. “That’d be me, asswipe. But if you want Velma to get the credit for knocking some sense into you, I’m sure she’d oblige.”
He didn’t just say that. She absolutely wouldn’t “oblige.” Blood thumped uncomfortably in her temples.
Velma glanced to Brek. He had turned a strange shade of pissed-off red. Not good, not good at all.
“Hey.” Idiot guy grabbed Brek’s arm. Velma may not have been schooled in bar fights, but one could guess that was not a good idea.
“You got something to say?” Brek jerked his arm away.
“This.” The man scrunched his hand into a fist and drunkenly aimed for Brek’s face.
Fortunately for Bre
k, he had absolutely no force behind his punch.
Brek made his fist, pulled his arm back, and landed another blow to the guy’s nose.
Bone crunched as his knuckles made contact.
“Now there’s no question who broke it.”
She was going home. And when she got there, she was going to have some serious words with her roommate. Velma plopped her derriere onto the cold bus bench. They’d all been tossed out of the bar. Brek had disappeared. Claire was on the phone with Dean—their designated driver for the night—calling for an early pickup.
“Dean’s on his way. I can’t believe you got kicked out of a bar.” Claire slipped beside Velma, her arm draped around Velma’s shoulders.
“Be real, who thought we’d get tossed out on girls’ night because Velma got in a bar fight?” Heather leaned against the bus stop sign.
The roll of an engine cut her off as a motorcycle pulled up to the bus shelter.
Brek’s bike.
Now, she wasn’t into motorcycles, but his was vintage cool. Like something James Dean would have ridden—shiny black and loads of chrome with one large circular headlight. His spectacularly male set of thighs nearly covered the Harley-Davidson nameplate.
“On the bike, V.” Brek handed her a half helmet that would cover the top of her head and nothing else.
Um. No. She absolutely wasn’t getting on his death trap, especially without a full helmet.
“What happened to your date?” Velma pulled her purse over one shoulder and stood.
“Bike. Now.” Brek shoved the helmet toward her more forcefully.
“I don’t do motorcycles.” She glanced between him, the helmet, and the ground.
“You should get on the bike,” Claire chimed in.
“If you don’t, I’ll totally get on the bike.” Heather grinned like a loon.
“Swear to God, V. Get on the bike, or I’ll toss you on the bike.” Brek’s glare turned fierce.
“You wouldn’t dare.” She glared right back.
“Five bucks says she doesn’t get on the bike,” Claire said from behind.
“I’ll take that bet,” Heather replied. “If he tosses her on the bike, I get double.”
Velma turned and hushed them. “You’re not helping.”
“I kinda think we are.” Heather shrugged.
The bike motor seemed to get even louder. Oh dear. Given the expression that crossed Brek’s face, he absolutely would toss her on his bike.
Velma took the helmet, put it on, and clipped the chinstrap.
“We all need to go out more often.” Heather sighed.
Velma stepped closer to Brek, so they were nearly nose to nose. “Why are you doing this?”
Exasperated waves of frustration poured from him. “You wanna talk this out? We’ll do it at home.”
“You think they’re really going to talk this out?” Claire stage-whispered to Heather.
Velma ignored her.
Brek did have a point. Bickering on the corner made no sense. She gestured to the seat. “I’ve never been on a bike before. How do you…you know?”
“I feel like my baby sister is growing up before my eyes.” Claire laughed. “I’m so proud of you, Velvet.”
“Climb on. Hang on. Don’t let go.” Brek held Velma’s gaze with his own.
“Right.” She could do that. She fixed her bag to cross-body and not so gracefully swung her leg over the seat to settle against his back, attempting to keep a modest space between them.
He pulled her arms around his waist, erasing any space. She tried to move farther back, but the engine growled, sending interesting vibrations between her legs.
Okay, so she was beginning to understand the draw of motorcycles.
The bike lurched forward. Fine. That worked, too.
“Have fun with your talk!” Heather shouted over Brek’s engine.
Velma squished her eyes closed and held on tighter.
The first block flew by before she finally peeked out from beneath her lashes. They stopped at a red light, and Brek stuck his foot against the pavement to hold them up. She gripped his waist harder. She wasn’t going to biff it at a red light wearing only half a helmet. His jacket was unzipped, and sheesh, he had amazing abdominal definition—the ridges prominent even through his shirt. Of course she had seen them before. But she’d never felt them.
Perhaps the Brek Express was a good option. A car ride had never turned her on like this.
Brek pulled into his parking space, right beside hers. He cut the engine and put down the kickstand. She climbed off, lost her balance, and fell helmet-first against his chest.
His arms caught her, and he didn’t release his grip. Her rapid heartbeat echoed in her ears. Surely, he could hear it, too. She clutched the soft leather of his jacket as his hand at her waist slid higher. His other hand unclipped her helmet and tossed it to the asphalt. She focused on where it landed near the painted yellow stripe delineating their parking space. Brek’s finger traced her chin and lifted it so her gaze met his, which was a really bad idea because the heat from his anger melted into a different kind of fire. A warmth that somehow amplified his intense blue eyes.
She stood frozen in his gaze as he dipped his face until his lips barely brushed hers. Testing. Examining. She opened her mouth to tell him this was a bad idea. Supremely bad. Epically bad.
He must have misinterpreted her response because his lips urged for more and opened further. Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea. Nice, actually. Perfect amount of pressure. Oh, some tongue. Dear goodness, he tasted delicious. Cardinal sin, mistakes, and all the things she never let herself feel. In other words, he tasted amazing. Amazing with a subtle hint of wintermint gum. She adored wintermint gum. Of all the mints, that one was her top choice. He pulled his tongue back, and that was no good. No good at all.
She tilted her head and sought him out again with her mouth. He responded with a vengeance, tongue and hands everywhere. Her fingers still clutched him close and, oh my, she was panting. Whatever. She blamed it on the motorcycle engine purring between her thighs for three miles.
Except, they were roommates, and this was inappropriate. She broke the kiss, still breathing hard and more than a little shaky. She could blame it on the bike ride, but the truth was the Tilt-A-Whirl inside her had nothing to do with a motorcycle and everything to do with the man she was still hanging on to.
Step one. Release Brek.
Step two. Apologize for leading him on.
Step three. Insist it never happen again.
Step four. Well, she would figure that one out eventually.
She dropped her hands. Miraculously, she did not fall over. “I, um—”
“Don’t say it.” The fire in his eyes turned angry again.
“Say what?” She tugged at the hem of her shirt.
“Whatever bullshit you were about to say to ruin what just went down,” he clipped.
Oh. No apology this time. Onto step three.
“That can’t happen again.”
“There it is.” He pressed his lips together and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“There’s what?”
“Your bullshit.”
“It’s not baloney. I’m serious. That was a lovely kiss.”
“Lovely?” He looked less than impressed.
“Amazing. It was amazing,” she corrected. Well, it was. “Also inappropriate.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Inappropriate?”
“What would Dean think about us?” she asked.
His expression went dark. “Why would Dean have anything to say about us?”
Velma held herself back from the urge to lick her lips. “Nothing. I just mean...”
“Wait.” Brek’s eyes widened. “No. That couldn’t be.”
His whole vibe changed.
“What?” she asked.
“It’d make sense though,” he continued.
“Brek, what?” He was putting the pieces together for something.
&nb
sp; “Your reaction when your sister got engaged.”
Oh no.
His palm hit his forehead. “Tell me you’re not into Dean. Is that what this is about?”
“What? No.” Not anymore. She shook her head for good measure.
She needed to deflect this conversation. No way could she tell him about her previous Dean-plan. “This is about tonight. I wasn’t your date. What about her? How would she feel about what happened just now?”
“You’re serious?” He glanced up to the stars. “She’s fuckin’ serious.”
“I am serious,” she confirmed.
“Chelsea left. I was a shitty date because I couldn’t get my mind off you.”
“Oh.” She bit her bottom lip. Everything was so messed up. All because she’d actually considered his proposition. “Let’s go back to the way things were before,” she heard herself say. The words sounded hollow and vacant.
The lines at the edges of his lips turned down, then smoothed. “That’s what you want? Because that’s what you say, but thirty seconds ago, your lips told a whole different story.”
She sucked in a breath but didn’t respond. The air between them hung like an itchy wool blanket.
“That’s what I thought.” He moved away to pick up the helmet and tuck it in one of the saddlebags. “Go on ahead.”
She didn’t linger. Step four officially involved hustling to the entrance of their building without further contact. The security door was nearly within reach when the engine on his bike rumbled. She entered her code, and a pull she couldn’t quite decipher stopped her. She turned, but Brek was already gone.
Step five was apparently disappointment. In herself.
She went through her nighttime routine and crawled into bed, tossing and turning, waiting for him to return.
He didn’t.
Chapter Eight
Brek was over the bullshit of the night before. After spending the night at Jase’s, Brek rolled the tension from his shoulders and studied the license plates on the ceiling over Jase’s couch. Jase had collected a motley assortment from all fifty states, and then some—enough to cover all the plaster. The result was impressive, and a decent distraction from Velma. Brek had needed space to think.
Just the Tip of the Iceberg: Mile High Matched Books 1-3 Page 8