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Blackthroat eyes it darkly, like my playing bass guitar is another affront to him. When Jerry walks by, pushing his janitorial cart, my boss steps in front of me, as if to block his view of my outfit. We get in the elevator, and he doesn’t stop frowning at me.
My heart beats faster just being so near him. I’ve worked for this guy for a month, and I like to think I’m figuring him out, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still both intimidate me and turn me on.
He’s so much bigger and taller than I am, and the powerful force field of his presence takes up even more space. The elevator car feels too small. “You don’t have to drive me,” I say again to try to cut through the tension.
He gives me an unfathomable look. “I’m driving you. Where is the show?”
“It’s in Brooklyn. I was supposed to be there an hour ago.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“Would it have mattered?”
“I would’ve let you go,” he says mildly.
It occurs to me that he might be telling the truth. He’s a demanding hardass, but he rewards hard work.
I shift and steal a glance at his handsome face. “I don’t like to leave a job unfinished.”
“I appreciate that.” His gaze dips to my outfit, resting on my bare belly for a few minutes, then down my legs, then back up to my breasts framed in the hot pink bra. He shakes his head. “You couldn’t have changed at the venue?”
“There’s no time.”
We take the elevator to a private garage level where Blackthroat and his execs apparently keep their cars. I whimper when I see the ride–a shiny black Porsche Taycan. The new all-electric one.
At least he didn’t illegally park it on the curb.
“You really don’t have to drive me,” I mutter as he holds the passenger door open for me.
“Shut up, Ms Evans. I’m driving you.” He slams my door.
“What crawled up your ass?” I mutter to myself before he climbs in his own seat. The glare he gives me makes me think he heard.
He puts the car in reverse and backs out so fast the tires squeal. “I’m sorry you don’t seem to understand the effect your bare skin has on the average male, but let me assure you, it’s significant.”
Heat pools between my legs, and my nipples pucker beneath the neon bra. He actually admitted it. He’s attracted to me.
I pluck at the very short hemline of my skirt. “Um… thanks?”
“It wasn’t a compliment, just a fact.” He takes the curves of the parking garage so fast I have to hang onto the door handle. He glances at the guitar propped between my knees. “Are you any good?”
“No. I mean, I’m proficient. But this isn’t a real band or a regular thing. My friend loves this sort of thing, and I promised to do it as a favor.”
He zips out onto the streets. Traffic sucks, but Blackthroat drives like we’re in one of those high speed chases in an action movie, weaving in and out of traffic, making tight turns and gunning it every chance he gets. I hang onto the door handle, turned on. I always had a thing for Jason Bourne.
Once we’re in Brooklyn, I give him directions to the venue, and he pulls up in front.
“Would it be okay if I left my coat in here, so I don’t have to worry about losing it in there?” I ask as I climb out.
He looks grim, like I’m asking for the moon. “Sure,” he deadpans. “I love for my car to smell like vanilla lattes.”
“Great. And thank you for the ride. It wasn’t awkward at all.” I return his sarcasm.
His lips curve in what I swear to God is the first smile I’ve ever seen on him. It’s not actually a smile. Just the hint of one. “Break a leg.”
For a moment, our gazes lock, and I lose my breath. I give him a full grin as I swing the door closed. “Thanks.” Tossing the guitar strap over my shoulder, I jog in, trying to ignore how hot and flushed I feel all over.
* * *
