Page 48 of Sweet Ache (Driven 6)
Hawke nods his head slowly as if he’s mulling something over. “Well, you should definitely head on over to the club, have some drinks, relax, and party a bit, and you just might win her over.” Hawke flashes a knowing grin at Luke that I sense means something more.
“Thanks man, we will.”
Hawke chuckles as he turns his back to walk away, and I swear I hear him say, “Then again you might just lose her to a rock star.”
“What?” Obviously Luke hears it too. His body stiffens beside me and I can tell by the condescending tilt of Hawke’s head as he looks back at us that he meant every word he said.
“Sorry man, we’re big on bets here within the band,” Hawke says, waving over to Vince and Gizmo before turning back to us. “Making them is just kind of a habit. No harm, no foul.”
So why am I screaming foul?
Chapter 13
HAWKIN
The bass thumps in my chest, a constant drum of vibration, and out of habit I tap my fingers on the glass in my hand like I do my mic on stage. I glance around to where dark lights reflect off glass-littered tables, and take in the fact that there’s enough talent between the four bands partying here to sell out any house.
Then I lock eyes with Jake, lead singer of the Mighty Storm, and tip my beer to him. He nods with a slow smile and by the look on his face, alcohol is his friend tonight. He relaxes with one arm around his wife and the other thrumming the beat on his leg. Like minds.
The song switches on the floor below, one that has a wicked beat, and I sink back into the cushion behind me, closing my eyes for a moment. The couch is comfortable enough but it’s not like I’d want to pass out on it—no, not here with the rumors of what happens on the VIP floor of Scandalous—although I’m well on my way to doing just that.
Especially because she’s not here. But why should she be? Why would she choose me over him? Yeah, I talk a good fucking game but when it comes right down to it, he can offer her so many things that I can’t.
Sex I can do—I’ve certainly imagined long, sweat-inducing sessions of our bodies engaged every which way. Love on the other hand—the stability, the longevity—no fucking way.
So why do I keep looking at the stairway for her?
Talk about an unexpected surprise to look up from the quick-and-easy twins who I had a unique and interesting time with last month to find Quinlan standing there in the meet and greet room. With his arm around her.
And his lips on hers.
Her fucking perfect tits in that tight tank top and her sexy as hell legs, bare and long, beneath the short skirt that begged for me to yank it up around her waist while I discovered her perfection beneath. Goddamn. Talk about wanting to go over there and rip his hands off her, let him know where things stand between us, but shit, a make-out session on the porch and a one-sided phone call doesn’t make her mine.
Yet.
Then she gave me the chance, rabbiting down the hall to escape after displaying the tiny flash of emotion in her eyes that I didn’t have enough time to read. And I couldn’t resist, had to follow her even with the opportunity for the twins again—shit, with any of the females in that room—sitting right in front of me, because I want only her.
I wanted to ask her so many things, most important what the fuck she was doing with that guy, but there was no stopping me from sampling her mouth the minute I pressed up against that ridiculous body of hers. Fucking hell, the woman kisses with every part of herself, like an R&B song that demands you to think of making slow, sweet love to someone. The kind of sex you can’t shake long after the condom’s tied off and your sheets fall cold.
I groan, the sound lost in the noise of the club, as I think of how fucking hard she made me with that selfish desperation she responded with. Nothing wrong with a woman going for what she wants. Talk about adding to her sex appeal and then some.
Take me. The thought has been on constant repeat since our first kiss. Pathetic, maybe. A necessary one, definitely.
And of course to make matters worse, I had to leave the sweetness of her in the bathroom to go back and watch that fucker’s arm go around her. I’m not a possessive guy—shit, in my business chicks come and go in and out of our lives like on a constant lazy Susan—so it’s not a feeling I’m too familiar with.
I sure as shit felt her react, tasted the need in our kiss, heard the way she called out my name, so where the fuck is she? Rocker trumps racer every time. Hands down.
What is it about her that has me wanting more? Ice cream is ice cream, so you need to keep sampling flavors so you don’t get sick of the one you like the most, and yet she seems like a new flavor that I can’t get enough of.
Addictive and has me craving more each time I get a taste.
You’re so fucked in the head, I tell myself, comparing her to ice cream, all the while thinking of just where I want my tongue to lick her. Damn.
I lean forward and set my empty beer bottle down to pick up the glass where my Jack and Coke sits half gone. And fuck if I know what causes me to take note of my tats, the symbols telling the sordid story of my life when my shirt pulls up my bicep, but I do. To others they’re just permanent ink on my skin; to me they are symbolic of everything churning inside me, past and present. All of them have their meaning, all of them tell of my hurt, my heartbreak, my motivation to move forward, to prove that I’m worthy of the things he robbed me of.
I draw in a deep breath, and try to shake the memories, the images that have forever left their indelible mar
k in my mind. It must be the mixture of alcohol that has me so contemplative. Quinlan not showing up.
