Page 52 of Layla

She shakes her head a little, like she’s trying to clear it, and plasters her famous smirky grin on her face. “Not at all. I’m just shocked you’re actually taking an hour off.”

There’s something false in her voice that I can put my finger on, but Tim only laughs. “The thing about John is that he has no idea what’s good for him. You have to drag him kicking and screaming to lighten up once in a while.”

“You can fucking say that again,” Layla mutters, half under her breath.

Fearing that this conversation is on the verge of getting out of hand, I nudge Tim. “Let’s head out so I can get back in time.”

“It’s okay, John,” Dylan says, leaning towards me conspiratorially. “We won’t tell anyone if you’re five minutes late.”

“I will,” Lance says cheerily. “I’ll tell your whole security team so they can hassle you about it.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, pushing Tim harder to make him walk. He looks disappointed, like he’d be happy to stand there and talk to Intrigue for the rest of the afternoon. “I’ll get you some autographs later, fanboy.” He laughs, ruffling my hair again as we pass the band. Layla doesn’t look away this time—her narrowed eyes remain on my face as we walk by.

Tim doesn’t waste any time. We’ve only just sat down at the burger place across the street from the venue when he levels me with his familiar penetrating stare. “So, what’s up with you and the hot drummer?”

“Jesus,” I mutter, looking around for the server. He couldn’t have waited until I had a beer in my hand for this?

“Come on,” he says, leaning forward. “Something is clearly going on.”

“Why do you say that?”

He looks at me like I’m nuts. “Because I have eyes and I could see the way the two of you were looking at each other. She looked like she couldn’t tell if she wanted to jump your bones or rip your head off. And you looked like you wanted to present her with flowers and candy or write her poetry or some shit.”

I bark out a laugh in spite of myself. “I did not look like that. In fact, I’d be willing to bet I’ve never looked like that in my entire life.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “I’m telling you man, it looked like you were contemplating breaking out into a love song right there in the hallway.”

I grab a cardboard coaster from the table and throw it at him, smirking when it bounces off his forehead. Of course, the waitress chooses that moment to appear at our table. “Sorry about my friend,” Tim says, his face grave. “He’s so immature. Can’t take him anywhere.”

The waitress titters, clearly half in love with him already. I roll my eyes. It seems like all he has to do is breathe in the general direction of a woman and they’re willing to throw themselves at him. “I’ll take a Heineken,” I say loudly, happy to interrupt the sparks that seem to be dancing between them.

She jumps a little, looking down at me like she hadn’t even noticed I was there. “Oh, right.” She turns fluttering eyelashes back to my buddy. “And for you?”

“Same, angel,” he purrs, giving her his most charming smile. I can practically hear her knees going weak.

“How the fuck do you do that?” I ask once she’s gone. “That girl was about ready to rip off her panties and shove them in your pocket and you barely said five words to her.”

He wipes an imaginary tear as he looks at me. “Is my little Johnny finally coming to me for advice about women?” I throw another coaster. He catches this one. “You must really like that drummer.”

“I do not need advice about women,” I snap. “I was merely making an observation.”

His grin is cocky. “Here’s the thing, John. On paper, there’d be no competition between the two of us. You’re built like a goddamn mac truck.” He gestures vaguely at my face. “And you’ve got that whole wounded, smoldering thing going on. Chicks dig that.”

“I’m not wounded,” I mutter, but he talks right over me.

“Your only problem is that you don’t fucking talk to women. You fade into the background of every situation like it’s your job.”

I glare at him. “Maybe because itismy job?”

He shakes his head. “Yeah, being unobtrusive is a good trait to have when you’re working security. I get that. But sometimes it feels like you never fucking stop working security. Every time you’re out in public you’re watching exits, observing the world instead of participating in it.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, really wishing the waitress would hurry with our beers. “I thought I was going to get a burger, not get my whole life psychoanalyzed.”

The teasing smile leaves his face and he studies me for a long, uncomfortable minute. “Someoneshouldpsychoanalyze you,” he says softly. “And you’re right—it shouldn’t be me. It should be a professional.”

“I don’t need a shrink.” The words come out a lot louder than I intended and several heads turn in our direction.

Tim doesn’t miss a beat. “You sleeping well?”