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An idea prodded at me like a devil’s fork. “I may be able to help you.”
“Oh yeah?” His eyes lit up. They were as green as the moss that lined the banks of the mighty Murray River, that drifted past the town where I grew up. Gold flecks danced around his green irises like they were having a party.
If I’m not careful, I’ll fall under their magical spell.
“I could let you into the downstairs bar,” I said.
“That would be magic.” He banged his hands onto his drum in an excited tempo.
“But you can’t tell anyone I did this for you.”
“Cross my heart.” He made a show of running his finger over his defined pec, and his eyes widened, capturing me like a hypnotist’s lure. He cocked his head.
Shit! Maybe I dribbled, or something. I wiped my chin.
“So, umm, did you want to take me down there?”
“Oh, right, yes. Let me help you with?—”
“You take this one.” He handed me a barrel-like drum, and as I clutched it to my chest, he tugged on a colorful, tie-dyed tank top, and picked up the remaining two drums. He nodded at me. “Lead the way.”
Out his door, I led him along the corridor to the lift and as we waited, I tried to stop my eyes from studying the incredible tattoo over his enormous bicep.
Holy smokes, he’s buff.
The lift opened, and we stepped in and turned around to face the mirrored doors. We couldn’t look any more opposite if we tried. He looked so damn sexy my panties could melt. I looked like Plain Jane. . . bloody boring.
He was definitely going to meet Memphis later.
“I’m so ’appy right now.” His smile was spectacular. “You all right, Miss Jane. It is Miss, right?”
“Yes. It’s Miss.” My throat tightened on that admission.
“That’s a damn shame. Beautiful woman like you should have a man looking after you.”
I met his eyes. “I don’t need looking after.”
Surprise rippled his forehead, and he released a deep chuckle. “No. I see you don’t.”
On the ground floor we lugged his instruments from the elevator. “I’ll let you into the bar and close the doors so no one can see you. Okay?”
“Yes, Miss Jane. No worries. You are so generous.”
“But Dontrel . . .”
“Yes?
“No touching the alcohol.”
He chuckled. “Me? No. Cross my heart.”
As his hands were occupied holding two drums, he couldn’t cross his heart, and with that playful look, I had every right not to believe him.
I set Dontrel up on the stage in the bar area. The raised wooden platform was big enough for a two or three-piece band. It was only utilized at the occasional function or wedding held at the Hot Horizon Hotel. Despite the size of the platform, Dontrel owned the space like it was built for him. With his three drums at his feet, he leaned over, tapped the top of each—as if testing them—then he started rapping out a smooth reggae beat.
As his glorious voice filled the room, I slipped out of the bar and closed the door.
The following hours slithered by with agonizing slowness. Occasionally, I heard Dontrel’s soulful music filtering from the bar, but the piped music playing through the speakers that were discreetly hidden around the hotel lobby drowned out most of it.
