Page 55 of Licks

In the end, I didn’t have to. Footsteps pounded behind me as I crossed the street. August’s voice followed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I kept moving, didn’t face him. “You were busy.”

“I was trying to get to you.”

It was true. He had nodded to me. He hadn’t cared for those women. Not tonight, at least. I put on a brave smile, pulled up my big girl panties, and reached for his hand.

12 a.m., 24 Hours…

August

Instead of leading us to her car, Gwen bee-lined for the hotdog stand opposite the club, her short steps so quick I had to jog slightly to keep up. She glanced over her shoulder, leveling me with nothing but a smile. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

I was about to tell her I was hungry for her lips and her body, for the soft patch of perfection between her thighs, but there was an edge to her voice, a tightness to her smile.

Because I’d royally screwed up.

Play her a love song, Finch had said. Tell her how you feel the best way you know how.

I’d walked on stage, intending to do just that. Pour my feelings into lyrics. Then the lights had mellowed. The venue I’d always wanted to play had come into focus, and a sense of rightness had crested me.

Destiny.

Finch and I were on our way to mending fences. The woman of my dreams had been staring at me, stars in her eyes, hesitation flickering, too. I understood then, what needed doing. There was something about coming full circle, traveling every inch of our history, rather than flying over the ragged terrain. It meant more to sing the pain, the remorse, the hope. It meant more to live each sonorous note, the deep, resonant sounds moving through me. It was the only way to show her I’d moved on. That now, finally, I was ready to put her first.

So I’d launched into my angriest hate-Gwen ballad, and I could have sworn she got it. Her brow had lifted and her eyes had turned soft, as though she’d understood my message.

Now she was distant.

I reinforced my grip on her hand. Distant wasn’t okay. Not with our time limit. Instead of discussing our appetites, or whatever other diversions she had in mind, I said, “You’re mad I sang that song.”

Unperturbed by my statement, she sauntered toward the hotdog stand, her fingers feathering across my palm. Gwen, the coy seductress. Another distraction technique. A hint of slide guitar wove from the club, twining through the air in a provocative rhythm. I didn’t recognize the song, but she swayed her hips, side-to-side, like the notes controlled her. Lived in her. A hot throb of lust gripped me.

That would be something, making love to her while this tune played, moving with her to the beat. I’d have to hunt it down. Blast it from speakers as we rocked together. She glanced back at me, and her cheeks pinked, like she was imagining the same scene. Her blush wasn’t an act. Neither was how hard she’d been fighting our connection. She was struggling with our intensity, unsure how to hold on.

Fixated on reading the shifts in her expression, I didn’t pay much attention as she ordered us a hotdog to share. I hadn’t realized she’d picked up the mustard spoon until it was fisted in her hand. The little sneak smeared it on my shirt.

I dropped her hand and jumped back. “What the fuck, Gwen?”

Lips flattened to keep from laughing, she brandished her plastic weapon. “That’s how I felt.”

“How you felt about what?”

“You asked if I was mad you sang that song.”

I held out my hands, afraid to touch my shirt and spread the bright yellow condiment. “And you felt…” I ran through my emotions just now: shocked, horrified, confused. “Oh,” I said, all irritation fading. “I see your point.”

She may have understood why I’d chosen that ballad by the end, but getting there wouldn’t have been fun.

I bit back a curse, annoyed with myself for being spontaneous. Reckless with her feelings. Instead of fighting the mustard attack, I dipped my finger in a thick blob and licked it off. Tart. Tangy. Sweet. “It’s not so bad after the fact, right?”

Her laugh finally exploded, a glorious cackle that had her doubling over. “I…” She tried to speak, but wound up wheezing and fanning her face. “You just….” Again, she dissolved. “You look ridiculous.”

We had an audience now, one woman with her phone in the air videoing us. Fabulous. That’d hit the social media circuit in no time, along with the rumor I got the shits. I should care. But I didn’t. The harder Gwen laughed, the lighter I felt. I grabbed the ketchup spoon and dashed it across her tank top. She came back at me with the mustard. I retaliated until we resembled a couple of Jackson Pollock paintings.

Gwen wailed like she’d been shot. “My boobs are bleeding.”

I snorted and she hammed up her performance.