Page 43 of Score
I let out a low whistle when I read the price tag dangling from the bright fabric, daring me to indulge in something so exorbitant.
“Eh, you only live once.” I stuff the T-shirt, jeans, and Converse into my backpack and don’t bother taking off the dress. “Monk will lose his mind.”
Barefoot, I glide out into the showroom and give the employee an imperious glance.
“And now,” I say, slapping my debit card onto the counter. “I’ll need shoes.”
ELEVEN
Monk
“I think we need to circle back to the bridge,” I say, communicating with the musicians in the booth using the talk-back button. “Gary, trumpet was flat on that second verse. Bret, something’s not right with that phrase you’re playing at the top.”
“Which one?” Bret frowns and runs through the section I’m talking about on keys.
I tilt my head back and listen, homing in on each note.
“Nope. Something’s still not…” I stand, walk the few feet to reach the booth, and open the door.
It’s a good size, large enough for the piano to roll in and for the drummer, trumpet player, and standing bass to fit easily. I nod to the bench where Bret is currently seated.
“You mind?” I ask.
He scoots off and leaves the bench for me. I run through the chords one by one, trying to isolate what isn’t fitting with the other parts. We need to figure it out before we burn through any more studio time and money.
“Here we go.” I hit the G several times. “It’s that one. You hear?”
I play the part, barely needing to glance at the sheet music. After I run through it with them twice, I slide off the bench and hand it back to Bret. “I think that should do it.”
“Thanks, man,” Bret replies.
“No problem,” I say. “Let’s take it from the top.”
They seem not to hear me, their eyes fixed over my shoulder.
“Shit,” Gary curses, licking his lips like a home-cooked meal was just set in front of him. “Who isthat?”
“Oh, I hope she’s some kind of lost groupie,” Bret laughs. “’Cause I could convince her I am somebody just long enough for her to flash them titties.”
I glance back through the plexiglass that separates the booth from the soundboard. The woman in question is stunning in a very obvious way. Short dress barely long enough to cover her ass, long, leanly muscled legs on display. The bodice of the pink dress barely contains her breasts. Her hair is teased into a huge cloud of curls and her makeup is heavy, bordering on garish.
The lighting in there is dim, but it looks like…
“What the hell?” I mutter, heading for the door leading back to the control room, but stopping to glare at the musicians practically drooling all over their instruments. “That’s my girl. Stop… looking at her.”
Bret whistles. “Lucky sommabitch.”
I grit my teeth and try to keep my voice even when I reach Verity.
“Babe, what are you doing here?” I walk her to the corner and out of their line of vision.
“I thought I’d surprise you,” she says, her smile brighter than the skimpy pink dress.
“Uh, yeah. You did that.” I try to tug the two scraps of fabric that constitute the top together over her breasts, but it’s no use. The neckline plunges to her belly button and all the glowing skin I get to see every night is on full display for the musicians not even trying to hide their lust.
“What are you…” I pause and start again. “Vee, what are you wearing?”
“You like it?” She turns in a slow circle, and I almost swallow my tongue when I see the back of the dress. Thereisno back of the dress. Like at all. Naked skin, shoulders to waist and dipping so deep I see the shallow dimples above her butt. I’m pretty sure if she sneezes, her ass will fall out. She can’t be wearing underwear. I resent my dick for getting so hard at a time like this.
