Page 17 of Fractured Destiny

The door opens before Mason can start another story and the woman from the front rail steps inside like she owns the place.

She doesn’t hover in the doorway or pretend she took a wrong turn looking for the bathroom. Dark hair skims her shoulders. Her black tank top clings to curves she clearly expects me to notice, and cutoff shorts show off long legs ending in scuffed, red knee-high cowboy boots. She glances at Mason and Evan, dismisses them without being rude, then looks straight at me.

“You’re Lake.” She bites the tip of her finger.

I feign indifference. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Hmmm.” Her mouth curves. “Tessa.”

Mason claps once, loud enough to make Evan flinch. “Great meeting you, Tessa. Evan, we have very important band business at the bar.”

“Don’t be long.” Evan gives me one assessing look before picking up his bass. “We’ve got to get on the road.”

“Jesus, let the man have a little fun for once.” Mason pushes him into the hall.

The door closes behind them.

Tessa laughs and steps closer. “Your drummer’s a lot.”

“You caught him on a quiet night.” I hold my position.

“Good. I like loud.” She drags her gaze down my body with zero subtlety. “Your moves on stage got me a little worked up.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Only a little?”

“Don’t fish for compliments.” She hooks her finger through the hem of my shirt and tugs me toward her. “It makes pretty boys look needy.”

I should probably be offended. Instead, I laugh because she’s got my cock stirring.

For the first time in a while.

This is a good-time girl. Bawdy, direct, sure of what she wants. I’ve known plenty of women like her, especially in Seattle.

Newsflash. Women like musicians. They like guitars, sweaty shirts, stage lights, hands with calluses. They love the version of me who exists under a spotlight and don’t usually care much if I fuck ’em and leave ’em.

Until Neeley, I never minded.

I’m twenty-three and semi-good-looking. I’ve fucked in dressing rooms, bathrooms, borrowed apartments, the back seat of car I don’t own. Once in a laundry room while someone’s sheets were still tumbling in the dryer.

It’s never deep. It’s not supposed to be.

I’m too young for forever, and I sure as hell never offer it.

Then Neeley happened.

Fucking Neeley.

Tessa kisses me before I can get irritated with my own head. I kiss her back because she’s willing, beautiful, and here. Most importantly, she’s not a scrap of paper softening in my pocket from nine months of being touched when nobody’s looking.

Her hands slide beneath my shirt. Mine settle on her hips. The headliner crashes into their first song onstage, and the bass rattles through the cinderblock walls. Tessa laughs against my mouth when I back into the couch, then drops onto my lap as if we’ve done this a dozen times before.

“You know what I like?” She tugs my lower lip between her teeth.

“My personality?”

“Your hands.” She takes one and presses it against her waist. “Also, the way you look when you stop singing and let the guitar talk for you.”

Jesus. The words strike a familiar chord and I’m not going down this path to nowhere.