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I hesitate, looking around for a moment.
Adam’s brown eyes darken. For a moment, apprehension quivers in my tummy at the prospect of seeing the first flare of his supposed temper. But then he reaches a hand toward me and says, “No one’s going to hurt you while I’m around.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, partly from pleasure but mostly from embarrassment. I force myself to march down the three steps to the pavement. “You must think I’m ridiculous.”
His arm swings by mine and I regret not taking his hand. “Nope. Smart. My dad had his share of stalkers. Why do you think the celebs all have bodyguards? Because they’re ridiculous or because they’re smart to be on guard against stupid people? But we’re here and the ass-wipe is a day’s drive away. You’re safe.”
From Marrow, but not from myself. I can’t tell Adam that so I force a smile onto my lips. “Thanks.”
It’s better he thinks I’m scared of Marrow rather than the truth: that I have a crush so strong that if I ease the lid off my control, I’m going to attack Adam.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. Inside we find Davis talking to Keith Dieter, the front man for Threat Alert. He’s wearing tight black jeans, a white T-shirt strategically ripped around the torso and collar, and tan Timberlands.
“What do you think of TA?” Adam jerks his head in Keith’s direction.
“They’re okay.”
Adam huffs a small laugh. “Not as good as we are, of course.”
“Of course.” We share a small smile and the quiver that snaked around my belly earlier reappears. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of an unwanted fixation. I’m not pushing that on Adam.
But in some way, because I know he isn’t attracted to me at all, the need feels good—healthy, even. Recklessly, I stoke that small fire and let it spread. Standing next to Adam, feeling the burn in my blood like a shot of good whiskey, I have the urge to throw myself at the poor man.
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” Adam says sharply.
“Like what?”
He closes his eyes, as if seeking patience. I wonder if I’m going to be treated to my first exhibition of his temper, but he does nothing except shake his head before stomping off.
His reaction irritates me a smidge. Yes, I might have an inconvenient crush, but I’m not acting on it. And he can suffer through a few thirsty glances. From what I saw the other night, I’m not the only one who makes those eyes at him.
My smile dims a bit at that thought, because somehow being one of a crowd of girls who want to see Adam without his clothes doesn’t feel good.
I rub a hand across my tummy and look around to find Rudd and Ian coming through the doorway, both with their arms full of instruments.
“How’d the PR go?” I call out to Rudd.
He lifts his chin. “Awesome, of course. Place is going to be packed.”
“Of course. What can I bring in?”
“Nothing, sugar. It’s bad luck to let a non-band member touch these babies before the show.”
After a few aborted attempts to help, Davis finally sends me away, telling me that I’m being a hindrance and bothering everyone.
I end up at the bar, sipping water garnished with a lemon and talking to Bob, the bartender. He’s wearing one of those mechanic’s shirts with his name embroidered on it. We chat about his favorite restaurant which happens to be a barbecue spot. We end up spending the next fifteen minutes debating dry rubs over wet rubs. Bob is a wet rub enthusiast.
It ends up sounding dirty and weird talking about different types of rubs for a particular cut of meat so we shift topic to the crowd he expects tonight. It’s a mix of college students and young professionals. He prefers the young professionals. College students don’t tip worth shit. His words, not mine.
As the sta
ff starts to trickle in, I see that everyone wears some version of the mechanic’s shirt. A few of the waitresses have the shirt unbuttoned and tied under their boobs. Another bartender wears his open over a torn wifebeater.
Bob is a chatty guy, and while he does pre-opening prep he shares that the show is sold out and has been since last week. Lots of people want to hear Sid Rees’s son play. Apparently Death to Dusk is strangely popular in Georgia. I assure Bob that the band is awesome, but inwardly worry that everyone will expect screeching guitar solos and screaming vocals, neither of which Adam or Davis deliver.
FMK is set to play the fourth hour. Starting at eight, each band will play a fifty-minute set separated by a thirty-minute break, which allows the various groups to break down the existing stage and set up for the next set. It’s apparently bad luck to use someone else’s instruments.
The space fills up quick once the doors open, and Bob has little time to chat with me after that. I leave him a hefty tip and find a quiet booth in the corner where I can see the stage and the door. I’m not looking for Marrow anymore. Detective Pressley kept a close eye on him while I was preparing to leave, and aside from her, my parents, and May, no one knows I left with Davis. Heck, I’m not even sure Davis’s former coworkers know where he is.
