It is a little tempting to go meet the band now that I have a better understanding of what they do, but they are so outnumbered by fans, I imagine any real conversation likely won’t take place.
Instead, I decide to take my seat once again and text Joe about how to access the safe and get the change he needs. Joe and I are in the middle of that text conversation when someone sits next to me, but assuming it’s Mandy again, I don’t pay much attention.
“Why aren’t you tripping over yourself to meet Karl?” a husky voice says.
“One second, please,” I say without looking up.
Me: Were you able to get into the safe?
Joe: Yeah. Got it. Sorry to have bothered you. I got it from here.
Me: Are you sure?
Joe: Yeah. You’re distracting me now.
Me: I have every faith in you.
Whoever sat next to me clears his throat, grabbing my attention for real this time. “Um, sorry about that. Work.” I shrug apologetically as I tuck my phone in my back pocket and turn my attention to the man speaking. I have to do a doubletake to realize who is sitting next to me.
Brenner Reindhart.
I look around the room, and the groupies are all still huddled around Karl, plus a few around Fritz, along with Mandy. Had no one noticed Brenner walk into the room? I sure hadn’t. But he would be hard to miss, being the tallest person in the room. Or did they just not care?
“So?” Brenner asks.
“Um—so what?” My heart starts to race, and I can’t believe I’m having a hard time forming words.
I always imagined that if I ever met someone famous, I wouldn’t be a fumbling moron like everyone else seems to be. I also am not the super-fan of Industrial November that Mandy is, so it catches me by total surprise when my brain stops working in front of Brenner Reindhart. His chocolaty-brown eyes bore into me, and I melt under his gaze. Brenner exudes a virility that overtakes my senses, and I decide it is that—and not his rock-god status—that attracts me to him.
He asks again, “Why aren’t you over there with the other groupies dying to meet Karl or Fritz?” His voice carries the slightest hint of a German accent that sounds so sexy from his lips, I almost liquefy into the couch.
Words come out chopped, and time slows around me. “Oh, I’m not really a fan . . .” Crap. That’s not what I meant to say. My eyes widen with panic, and I clasp my hand over my mouth.
Brenner throws his head back with laughter. “Well, this is a first.” He rubs his fuller bottom lip with his thumb, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “So, if you’re not a fan, what are you doing backstage?”
“That came out wrong,” I offer. “I guess I’m a new fan of the band, but tonight’s the first time I’ve been to one of your concerts.”
“Oh?”
I point to Mandy. “That girl over there, Mandy, she won tickets from a radio station and invited me.”
“So she’s the fan?”
“I really didn’t mean to say I wasn’t a fan. I, um—I like your music.”
My phone dings again. I close my eyes and count to ten. I am going to kill Joe. “I’m so sorry. Really, it’s work.”
I barely have my phone in my hand when Brenner speaks again. “You Americans are so rude. Always glued to your phones or work—or both.”
My jaw drops, and I can only stare at him. What the hell? “Excuse me?” I say, my voice clearly laced with disdain.
“Get back to your work.” Brenner stands and walks over to where Fritz and Karl are standing as Mandy runs over to my side. What an arrogant ass. To think I found him handsome and talented. Though, from what stereotypes I hear about musicians, especially front men, they are all arrogant. I shouldn’t have expected anything less, not even after he basically serenaded me in front of thousands of people.
His rude comment and prompt dismissal cure me of any celebrity-induced blindness I may have had.
“Ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd,” Mandy whisper-screams at me and squeezes my forearm like a boa constrictor. “You aren’t going to believe this!”
“What?” I ask, prying her hand from my arm before she bruises it.
“They want to come over to La Oficina! Karl said he wants to party, but the band didn’t want to go out because they don’t feel like dealing with fans all night.”
“You think they won’t have fans at La Oficina? I’m pretty sure they’ll get recognized anywhere they go.”
“Yeah, but you have that private party room. I told them I know a bar with a private room and discreet staff, and they could go there. Karl is all for it. Fritz agreed. Please tell me it’s not booked tonight.”
“No, it’s not, but—” Mandy stops listening to me then as she turns to give Karl a thumbs up.
“Mandy, focus,” I say. “I think Brenner and I got off on the wrong foot. I doubt he’ll want to go to my bar—”
“Oh, they said he probably won’t go. He rarely goes out drinking with the band.”
Leave it to Mandy to know all the inner workings of a band she met only minutes ago.
“I don’t know,” I say. Rock bands are notorious for property damage and rowdy behavior. La Oficina isn’t that kind of bar, and I don’t want it getting the wrong reputation.
My typical customers are hospital staff or the families of patients. They come to celebrate new babies or near-death recoveries. Sometimes they come to mourn. But all of it is a mellow sort of vibe—the local watering hole. I always knew what kind of ambiance I wanted my place to be, and high-profile expensive clients don’t quite fit the bill.
“Come on!” Mandy whines. “Think about it. You’ll make a killing from them alone.”
Mandy makes an excellent point, and I’m not renting out the private room tonight, so I am fresh out of excuses for her.
“Let me text Joe so he can get things ready—”
“Really? This is amazing! I’m going to party with Industrial November!” Mandy all but squeals.
I shake my head at this strong, beautiful woman reduced to teenage antics as she fangirls over the German band. “Tell them to use the back entrance. I’ll leave empty boxes they can lift to cover their faces and carry them into the private room so no one will see them go in. They’ll pass for staff.”
“You’re brilliant!” Mandy gives me a peck on the cheek and is about to run off when I stop her.
“Hey, we should get going. I need to be there to help get ready for them.”
Mandy shoots me a wicked grin. “No worries. I’m going with the band.”
As I speed-walk to Bonnie, I text Joe about the private party, leaving out the details about who exactly our VIP guests are. I don’t need another fumbling idiot beside me. If I wait on the private room, no one else in the bar needs to know who is there. I’ll let Joe know at the end of the night before they leave so he can meet them.
When they arrive, Mandy beams at me as she goes into the private room, followed by the band members, who all carry in boxes and successfully enter the bar under the radar. So successful is my brilliant plan that I don’t catch that one of the men carrying a box is Brenner Reindhart—the ass. I don’t notice him until I go into the room to take drink orders.
The private room has six tables, and they are packed with the band, their security detail, and various groupies, including Mandy. The only band member not present is the drummer—Adrian, I think.
“What can I get you all to drink?” I ask, ready to start jotting down orders.
“Just get us a bottle of vodka and a bottle of tequila for every table. Waters for everyone too,” Brenner says, not looking at me.
“I’ll have a beer,” Mandy adds.
“And a beer for the lady,” Brenner says, smiling at Mandy, letting his eyes linger on her. “All on my tab,” he adds, still looking at her. He never turns to look at me during the exchange. When he lifts his credit card in the air and waits for me to grab it without so much as a ‘thank you,’ I decide I’ll be over-charging him out the ass for his arrogan
t entitlement. I can’t believe he had the gall to call me rude when he behaves like this to waitstaff.
When I return, clutching a tray of water glasses and shot glasses, the mention of my name stops me in my tracks outside the entrance to the private room.
“So, what’s the deal with that girl who came to the concert with you?” the voice I recognize as Fritz asks. “The hot one with the short black hair. The one who took our order.”
“Sofia,” Mandy says. “She’s a friend. I kind of dragged her out tonight.”
“But what’s her deal? She single?” Fritz asks with interest, making me smile. Maybe the night isn’t a total dud. Fritz is hot in his own way, even if he doesn’t have Bren’s dangerous voice.
“Aww, man, you claiming dibs on the hottie? Didn’t even give a guy a chance,” says another man, who I’m pretty sure is the guitarist.
Then Brenner’s thunderous voice rises over everyone else’s. “You all sound like idiots. You can’t claim dibs on women.”
Someone laughs, and I think it might have been Fritz. “Looks like dad already claimed dibs,” he says, and I can picture the grin on Fritz’s face even without looking at him.
“I hate it when you call me that. And I’m not calling dibs. I wouldn’t call dibs on an insignificant waitress,” Brenner answers.
“That’s not cool, man,” Fritz says. “Who cares if she’s a waitress?”
“Yeah,” Karl chastises. “Nothing wrong with being a waitress.”
That does it. I walk into the room, my hands shaking so much the glasses tilt and water sloshes, nearly spilling over the rims. Mandy must see murder in my eyes—and I can’t deny I’m seriously considering turning the tray upside down on Brenner Reindhart’s head—because she calls out to me to grab my attention.
“Sofia! Hey. Thanks for the drinks.”
Her loudness draws everyone else’s attention in the room, and Brenner looks at me for the first time. In his defense, he grimaces and slides a bit down in his chair.
Good. I hope he is embarrassed.
Mandy begins offering an explanation, “Actually, Sofia isn’t—”
“Done getting all the drinks. I’ll be right back with more. Mandy, can you come help me, please?”
“Um, okay.”
Joe has the vodka and tequila bottles ready to go with buckets of ice by the time I get back to the counter, Mandy trailing behind.
“What was that about?” Mandy asks.
“Don’t tell them I own the bar.”
“Why not?” she asks.
“If that pretentious ass thinks I’m a waitress and that he gets to look down at me because of it, I don’t want him to change his tune. I will never see him again after tonight. Let’s just get through the night and leave me out of it.”
“You promise you won’t pour a drink over his head?” Mandy asks sweetly.
“I promise I’ll do my very best.”
Hiding in the Smoke
Three: Bren
I insulted Sofia, our waitress, not once but twice. The first time at the meet-and-greet backstage, when I flat out called her rude to her face, and the second when I put down her profession just now, and I’m almost sure she heard me.
I’m almost certain of it because her icy glares send shivers down my spine the rest of the night, and when I sign for the bill, I pay about twice what I usually do. Given we are in Kansas City, I expect the bill to be less than at a major American City, not more. I can’t fault her for padding the bill, though. I’ve been a total ass.
I’ve tracked her all night, hoping to find a moment to explain myself and apologize, but she’s a slippery one. In my defense, after the concert, I was exhausted. At thirty-four, I am the eldest member of the band and the front man. I need to keep up with the younger guys, but I also need to deliver our overly ambitious performances. When I saw her sitting there alone, I couldn’t believe there was a woman as hot as her not kissing Karl’s or Fritz’s feet. An excitement I hadn’t felt in a long time bubbled in my chest, and I had to talk to her.
It doesn’t help matters that she is perfect. Her raven-black, short hair falls in straight tresses around her perfect, heart-shaped face. She is wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt. Despite her simple outfit, her body is fucking killer. The instant I saw her sitting by herself, my cock twitched. Then I got close, and she bit that perfect full bottom lip of hers as she typed on her phone.
I wanted that perfect mouth on me—anywhere.
Then she kept her attention on her stupid little phone and texted away. And I’m Brenner fucking Reindhart. I’m not used to women dismissing me. Sure, I’m not the first one the women go to, but once Karl, Fritz, and even our drummer, Adrian, pick, I get the same kind of attention from their castoffs.
Usually, it doesn’t bother me to be last pick. Karl, Fritz, and Adrian are still looking for the next hottest groupie for the night. But I want something real. Something more. And I think women realize that when they get to know me.
But after Sofia’s cold shoulder the rest of the night, and the effects of the vodka taking over, I grow increasingly more pissed at her indifference. Does she not care who I am?
Now we’re waiting for the bar to empty out so we can leave unnoticed. Once Karl keeps ignoring a gorgeous redhead, she saunters over to my table.
“Hey, you’re the lead singer, right?” she purrs. Then she tosses her red hair over her shoulder.
“Yeah. Please, call me Bren. Nice to meet you.”
“Bren.” She giggles as she says my name.
This is always the most infuriating part. Waiting for people to adjust to who I am. It takes some longer than others to see that despite it all, I am just a guy. Same as any other.
“I’m Amber,” the redhead says. She bites her lip, and that gesture forces my thoughts to Sofia as she had bitten her own lip earlier in the night. What the fuck? Why am I still thinking about her?
“So, it’s getting late,” Amber says. “You thinking about heading out soon?”
“Yeah. The bar is already closed. We’re just waiting for it to empty out so we can go.”
“Want some company tonight?”
For some unfathomable reason, my instinct is to say no. I want no one if I can’t have Sofia, but as I scan the room, she’s nowhere to be seen. Besides, I’ve been such an ass to her, I’d probably have a better shot at her throwing a drink in my face than wanting to spend the night together.
“You know what, Amber? Yeah. I’d love some company.”
Almost the second I close the door to my hotel room, Amber’s miniature dress comes off, and she stands there in her underwear. She drags me by the hand until I sit on the bed, and she straddles me to grind on me.
“Brenner Reindhart. I can’t believe I’m in Brenner Reindhart’s bed.” She keeps giggling, and the sound is like the screech of audio feedback.
She also keeps saying my full name, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. When she kisses me, I feel nothing. She is beautiful and hot and exactly my type, and there is absolutely no reaction from my body.
Amber keeps grinding over my groin, waiting for a reaction that never comes—pun intended. “Everything okay?” she asks after her ministrations end up fruitless.
“Sorry. Bit tired. And distracted.”
She stops moving for a moment. “What are you thinking about?”
I don’t lie to women, so I became apt at workarounds a long time ago. “Don’t worry about it,” I say and press my lips to hers. I close my eyes and think about Sofia and Sofia’s lips only. My pulse quickens and redirects blood to my dick, stirring it alive. I dart my tongue into her mouth, and she purrs in response.
As I harden, she picks up the pace of her grinding over my jeans. Then she cups the shaft through the fabric and pulls away from my lips. “Oh, there you are, Brenner Reindhart.”
The sound of my full name in a voice that isn’t Sofia’s pulls me out of the fantasy, conquering my brain. The voice is too high and chirpy to be
Sofia’s. Sofia’s voice is seductive and honey-thick. My eyes fly open, and it’s Amber, the redheaded groupie, grinding against me—not Sofia. I stand, nearly tossing Amber off my lap, but I steady her to her feet.
“Sorry,” I say. I scan the room until my eyes land on her dress. I pick it up and hand it to her. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought. Do you need money for a cab?”
Amber’s nostrils flare, and she huffs. “No. I don’t need money for a cab.”
She hastily gets dressed again and storms out of my room, slamming the door behind her.
What the fuck was that? Why can’t I get an insignificant woman out of my head? We barely met, hardly talked, and it took thinking about her to get a hard-on. I’ve never, not once in my life, had a difficult time with that.
Kicking Amber out was a mistake. My erection presses against the zipper of my jeans almost painfully. I had already taken a shower before going to the bar, but I know if I want a shot at sleep, I’ll have to shower again before bed.
After shedding my clothes, I jump into an almost-scalding shower, letting the water ripple down my body. I hang my head, letting the strong water pressure beat at the back of my neck, and I shut my eyes, thinking of her.
Sofia’s thick lips wrapped around the head of my dick. Her tongue licking the length of me. I wrap my hand around my hard-as-steel shaft and squeeze with thoughts of Sofia on my mind. I stroke myself, picturing her mouth in the place of my hand.
Seconds pass before my load erupts from me, and my body tenses. I open my eyes, disoriented to time and place. I need to stop thinking about this woman.
Dreams of Sofia lull me into the best sleep I’ve had in a long time.
We have a day of rest in Kansas City before we move on to our next tour destination, and I’m determined to apologize to her, so I show up at the bar from last night. I don’t expect her to be there, but I can ask someone for her phone number.
Contusion Page 24