Off Bass

by KC Enders

  Seriously, these cherries are too perfect to waste.

  “Mmm,” I moan and shove the empty glass toward Nate. “Can I have another?”

  His brows pop high, and his smirk turns into a full smile. “You think you should? That’s a lot of alcohol for—”

  “Pshhh. I’m rehabbing an injury. What better time to let my liver live a little?” I giggle at the litany of L-words.

  My glass disappears and magically reappears, bearing another glorious cocktail. I don’t know the last time I allowed myself to enjoy one of these, let alone drink more than one. I lick at a stray drop of whiskey that has the audacity to roll down the outside of the glass. My gaze drifts up from the countertop and along the denim-clad legs casually extended in front of me, lingering on the straining bulge against the zipper.

  The chair beneath me—and maybe the world in general—is suddenly a little bit wobbly. Just a skitch.

  “Slow down with that, sweet thing,” Nate says, the old endearment wrapped in his gravelly voice. “When was the last time you ate?”

  I roll my eyes to the ceiling, loving the texture of the pressed tin tiles. “This morning maybe? I’m not really sure. I probably had a protein bar or something since then,” I say, though if I’m honest, I have no idea when I had anything of substance.

  “Mmhmm.” Nate snags his phone and taps away for a bit before dropping it back in the tray.

  The strength in his hands grabs my attention. His long fingers. The veins standing out on his hands, weaving up his solid forearms.

  I loved him. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the way he touched me. The reverence he had for me. All of it.

  Time spins away as we talk—really talk for the first time since we started this whole working-together thing. He tells me the reasons behind Charlie asking him to help me—skimming past what he hoped to find for himself in the studio.

  When he excuses himself to the bathroom, I ease off my barstool and stretch, twisting my back, relishing in the release I feel from the vertebrae cracking loudly.

  A groan floats in from behind me. “God, still fucking hate it when you do that,” he calls as the door clicks shut, muffling his voice.

  Mindful of my right Achilles, I stretch up on my toes and snag the whiskey bottle, cherries, and simple syrup from the shelf Nate stored it all on. I do my best to replicate his proportions and re-create his cocktail, adding and adjusting until my glass is overflowing.

  It’s not exact, but at this point, close is good enough. And really, that’s all I need for drink number three.

  As I take my seat, Nate’s phone buzzes loudly in the tray, and the doorbell rings, making me jump out of my skin.

  The bathroom door opens, and Nate yells, “I got it,” as he runs to the door.

  I take another sip of my drink, and his phone buzzes yet again. Without thinking, I grab it from the tray, noting that he doesn’t bother with a lock code, and entertain myself scrolling for a hot minute.

  The scent of butter chicken registers at the same time I feel the heat of him behind me. I should have known he was there. I should not have helped myself to his phone. I most definitely should not have started on a third drink.

  “Pretty presumptuous, going through my phone, sweet thing.”

  9

  MY DARKEST DAYS

  NATE

  “You don’t have a lot of contacts in there,” she says sheepishly.

  I drop my eyes to where she’s sliding my phone across the counter and laugh. “You went through my phone. Seriously?”

  Alex meets my gaze and holds it, waiting for me to say something more.

  “You’re right; I don’t. Mostly industry people and the guys. My parents. You.”

  I don’t miss her small quirk of a grin.

  “No booty calls. No booby pics.” She pops a brow high and rolls her lips between her teeth. “You’re not very good at the celebrity thing, are you?”

  “Wow. You really aren’t holding back.” A chuckle rumbles in my chest as I consider her statement.

  Gavin is all but married. Ian’s pretty quiet, conscious of keeping his private life private.

  “No. I’m not your typical rock star, if that’s what you’re asking. None of us really are—”

  “Except Kane. He’s always been a mess.” Her words spill out on the laugh of someone who knew him before he was anybody.

  I scoff because as public as Kane takes his shit, no one outside of the band and our PR people know even a half of the shitshow he is. “He’s something.” I pull containers from the to-go bag, moving around my kitchen for plates, silverware, and napkins.

  I tuck the whiskey back on the shelf and screw the lid on the nearly empty jar of cherries. “Pretty sure I didn’t leave those bottles out. You make yourself another?” I ask, eyeing what has to be her third drink.

  Alexis nods. And my lungs fucking fail as I watch her finger slide from between her plush lips. What practically brings me to my knees is her moan.

  “Oh my God, this is so good.” She pulls another chunk of chicken from the container and licks the sauce from it. “It’s like nothing’s changed. I’m scrolling through your phone, and you ordered the best butter chicken ever.”

  Except she’s wrong. So wrong. Because the woman sitting in front of me, a little bit tipsy and sucking sauce from her fingers like a porn star, is most definitely different from when we were kids.

  “Yeah. I’mma call bullshit on that,” I say in a sad attempt to get my mind out of the gutter.

  I get us each a glass of water because the tiny little dancer is already well beyond the two cocktails to a glass of water rule. Hell, as slight as she is and as little as she’s eaten today, she probably should have gone with two glasses of water for each glass of whiskey.

  “What do you mean?” Alex asks, releasing her hair before twisting it back up into a riotous mass on top of her head, exposing the graceful lines of her neck.

  And that fucking curl. I want to wrap it around my finger. I want to stretch it out. I want to grab that mass of curls and hang on for dear life as she wraps her lips around my cock.

  I push that lovely thought down, saving it for later, and dig into my butter chicken and rice. My head bounces back and forth as I compile my thoughts while the flavors explode across my tongue.

  “Pfft. You used to have fun. Now, all you do is dance. You don’t have any balance in your life.” I reach across the island, snag a piece of naan, and swipe it through a pool of sauce.

  Alex’s fork clatters to her plate. “Dancing is literally my job. I have to dance to get back on stage. This is what I do.”

  It’s adorable how her lip kicks up on one side when she’s feeling incensed.

  “Yeah, but it’s all you do. And just ballet.” I drain my whiskey and fix myself another one. If Alex is having a third drink, I am too. “I tour and shit with the band to pay the bills, but I have other things I do outside of that. You know, I switch it up and play my classical stuff. Sometimes, I even volunteer my time to help wayward, injured artists.”

  And to accompany the lip kick, we now have her brows scrunching together along with the adorable head tilt. Oh, and that blush that stains her cheeks.

  Jesus.

  Alex scoffs. “Easy for you since your job isn’t what you love. It’s not what you wanted to do.”

  “True enough. But I manage to have both. Maybe you need to try something else. Dance from your heart, have fun.”

  “Ballet is fun.”

  “Ballet is amazing. It’s beautiful and graceful. Athletic and breathtaking. Shaking your ass and not giving a shit is fun.”

  “I can still have fun,” Alex claims, pouting.

  “Nope. Don’t believe you.”

  Her food forgotten, Alex reaches across the counter, snagging my phone. “Can too. I’ll show you just how much fun shtuff I can do.”

  Some pop piece of shit plays from my phone, and Alex stands, starting to move. She’s rigid and a little sloppy, trying too ha
rd to make it a professionally choreographed showpiece. She even goes so far as to drag a chair over from the table and pop her foot up on the seat for her big finale.

  “What was that?” I ask, reaching for her arm to steady her wobble.

  “Fun.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think so. That was a performance—a lame one.”

  “It was not,” she insists.

  “Yeah, it fucking was. You were all stiff and awkward, like a baby giraffe testing its legs.” I grab my phone and connect it to the sound system. “Let me pick.”

  I scroll through my playlist and queue up “Skin” by Rihanna. When the music starts, Alex begins to move. It’s better this time. But she still needs help. With as much alcohol as she’s consumed, you would think that her inhibitions wouldn’t be such an issue. I reach out and hit the lights so that the only illumination is from a lamp in the corner of the living room.

  With my hands on her hips, I pull her close and start moving. This is what I remember. This is the Alex I remember. Slow and sensual. Sweet and sultry. And before long, she is doing it. She’s freer, dancing like she used to.

  As the song ends, she guides us around, turning so we’ve changed positions. She slides her hands up my torso until her palms rest on my pecs. And with a gentle shove, she pushes me back, so I fall until my ass hits the chair.

  The next strains are a little edgy and a whole lot of naughty. Zakk Wylde and “My Darkest Days.”

  I don’t know if she’s finally feeling it or if the alcohol has accomplished its mission of loosening her up, but for the love of fucks, is Alex moving.

  She reaches up and releases her hair from where she just fucking tucked it away, and it tumbles down around her shoulders in a fiery cloud, spilling over her breasts. The sweater she threw on over her dance shit slides off of one shoulder and then the other until she shimmies it over her hips, bending at the waist, pushing her gorgeous peach of an ass in my direction. All straight legs and heart-shaped curves. The only thing that could possibly make this better is if she had sky-high hooker heels, lifting that peach a little bit higher.

  It takes everything I have to keep my hands to myself. I sink lower in the chair and lean back, palms pressing into my thighs. Wiping the sweat away. Pushing at the denim of my jeans, anything to create a little extra space in the crotch.

  Each muscle lining the backs of her thighs is perfectly defined. God, I could paint that shit with my cum and be a very happy man.

  When she rotates her hips and spins to face me, she steps into the space between my spread legs. My lungs seize as she drops into a squat and slides our hands up my thighs as she stands, her thumbs skirting dangerously close to my dick.

  One at a time, she shoves my hands out of her way until my lap is clear. Mostly clear because my dick is like steel and there’s no hiding the way it presses against my zipper.

  I promised her this wouldn’t happen.

  Not this specifically because not even in my wildest dreams did I think she’d be giving me this kind of a show. But this dance—the way Alex is straddling me, gyrating above me—is absolutely not professional. I mean, it could be, and she would make fistfuls of cash if she did this for a job, but thank God that’s not her thing.

  I let her do it though. Relaxing into the chair, shifting my shoulders, and raking my eyes over her.

  A rosy blush stains the swell of her breasts. Her nipples peak beneath her little dance bra, the thin, stretchy pale-blue fabric clinging to her like a second skin.

  My mouth waters. I want to lean forward, peel away the layers, and seal my lips around her. Sucking. Licking. Biting.

  Alex pushes her hands into my hair, gripping the locks. She tugs, pulling my head back, causing me to lift my gaze to hers. The confidence swirling around her, the bite of pain on my scalp, the hazy lust, and the heavy desire fill the small space between us.

  A gasp escapes her as the apex of her legs brushes over my straining cock, her tiny little skirt riding high, exposing her to me.

  Her eyes, heavy-lidded and sultry, match mine. Her pink tongue swipes at her lower lip, leaving it slick and moist.

  I slide my hands up her thighs, her skin warm and smooth beneath my calloused fingertips. Push higher and higher until my palms are trapped between the tight material of her skirt and her hips.

  Each puff of her warm breath intoxicates me in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol we’ve had. We drift closer, and time seems to stand still. Everything other than Alex falls away.

  When the song ends and the next one starts, Alex leans close, brushing her lips across mine. She licks at the seam of my lips, demanding entrance. Her mouth is searing hot, and she tastes like whiskey and cherries. Her tits are smashed between us as she rotates her hips, grinding against my aching cock.

  “See? ’M fun. The funnest,” she says, her words slurring together before she dives back in, attacking my mouth.

  I press my fingers into her hips, holding her still before I lose my fucking mind. “You need to stop, sweet thing.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Her tongue blazes a trail down my throat, sucking, nipping, driving me out of my mind.

  Much as I want to see this through, to bury myself in her, hear her gasp and feel her shudder as she comes, I don’t want it to be like this.

  With as much as Alex drank and as little as she’s eaten, it wouldn’t be right. Any doubts I have of whether she’s acting on lowered inhibitions or is just flat-out trashed dissipate when I set her on her feet and she stumbles, falling back into my arms.

  “Jus’ havin’ fun. Jus’ gonna—”

  I wrap my fingers around her wrists, stopping her as she goes for my belt, fumbling with the buckle. I curse myself while simultaneously giving myself a mental pat on the back for having the wherewithal to stop this before it goes any further. God knows I’ve let it go far enough.

  “Not now, sweet thing.” As Alex sags in my arms, her body fitting perfectly with mine, I realize I have no idea where she lives. “Alex?”

  Silently, she nuzzles into my chest and slumps against me. There’s no response when I shift us, so I can look in her eyes.

  “Alex? Alexis?”

  I don’t know if it’s her full name that does it or the bite of panic in my voice, but she rouses just enough to mumble a slurred, “Tired.”

  I have to dip quickly, hooking my arm under her knees and cradling her to me to keep her from hitting the floor.

  I take her up the two flights of stairs to my master bedroom and set her on one side of my bed. As carefully as I can, I pull the comforter and sheet from beneath her and roll her to her side before pulling the covers up and over her.

  She doesn’t moan, doesn’t make a sound to show that she’s alive. The only indication that she’s breathing is the lock of hair swaying in the breeze of each exhale. She went from life of the party to passed the fuck out in record time.

  I push my hand through my hair as I jog down the stairs to shut everything down, grabbing both of our phones. I take the steps two at a time as I climb them, fully intending to keep going to my guest room above because I’m the good guy, as Ian likes to point out.

  Alex hasn’t moved. I peer through the darkness, and that lock of hair is hardly stirring now. How much did she drink? I thought it was three, but maybe it was more.

  There’s no way I can walk out of this room and go sleep on a whole other floor, but I sure as hell can’t crawl into this bed right now either. Not after the way she worked her body around mine.

  My dick has been hard for what feels like days.

  After dropping our phones on my charging pad, I set a glass of water on the nightstand next to her and push her chestnut curls back from her face. She rewards me with a breathy moan—good for knowing she’s alive, bad for the additional blood flowing to my dick.

  Fuck me to tears.

  I turn and stumble to my en suite and crank the water on. I shuck my clothes and climb under the punishing spray. There’s no way I can stand on c
eremony or try to pretend this is anything other than what it is. I pour a generous palmful of shower gel into one hand and then brace myself against the glass with the other.

  I stroke and squeeze my dick until my orgasm rips through me—quicker than I want to admit. When I can function enough to open my eyes, I wipe the steam from the glass and look toward my bed. The comforter is shoved low across her waist. A pale, creamy stretch of skin leads to where her gorgeous tits spill from the V of her dance bra, the barest hint of her rosy nipples precariously contained.

  She’s killing me. But I can’t think of a better way to die.

  10

  SIXX A.M.

  ALEXIS

  My head is pounding. The last thing I want to do is peel my eyes open. This is the most comfortable cloud of dreams I’ve ever experienced, and I don’t want to let it go. I squint one eye open and then the other. The faint early morning light filtering in does far less damage than I expect.

  The sheets beneath me are soft and white, giving way to a deep gray linen comforter. The effect is warm and cozy, completely comfortable and, without a doubt, not where I’m supposed to be.

  This is not my bed.

  This is not my room.

  And I hope with all that I have that I know who the hand wrapped around my thigh belongs to.

  I lift my aching head and peek through the curtain of my curls. Nate’s face is lax with sleep, his own curls like a sandy halo against the soft glow from the window.

  This is why I stick to wine. Occasionally a beer or vodka.

  People say that tequila makes your clothes fall off and vodka convinces you that you can dance. Whiskey most definitely makes me frisky. And on an empty stomach, it evidently makes me stupid kinds of drunk.

  My tongue darts out, wetting my dry lips.

  I need to go.

  I need a gallon of water, a hot shower, and a year of sleep.

  I do not need to face Nate after the show I put on. Dancing. Grinding. Sticking my tongue down his throat. For the love of fucks, what was I thinking?