Killian said something next to me — probably asking where we were sitting — but I wasn’t listening. Shit, she was blond under that wig. Who woulda thought, right? Well, if we’re real damn frank and honest — I did. I had thought about her all bent over that fucking tour bus table, taking my dick until she choked, screaming my name when I pounded into her, my hand slipping in her hair — herrealhair — fuck the wig. Blond, though? I had pictured her as a redhead. Don’t know why. Maybe I just had a thing for redheads. Who the fuck knew anymore.
Didn’t matter. Blond was working just fine for me right now.
But before I could act on it, I was being pulled toward the VIP section. We claimed our usual booth in the back corner — the big circular one with the best view of the stage and the floor. The red velvet rope here was pointless, just for show; half the regulars hopped it without breaking stride.
I dropped into the leather, legs spread wide, already signaling for a bottle.
Killian slid in next to me, grinning like an idiot the moment he spotted Dahlia on stage. “Six fucking months, man. Feels good to be home.”
“Feels better not having to tape Brett’s wrist every night,” I muttered, accepting the glass of whiskey a waitress immediatelyplaced in front of me. Not her. Not Baby Doll. I didn’t even try to hide my disappointment.
Brett — our drummer — snorted from across the table, holding up his casted right wrist like a trophy. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. Doc said I’m out for at least six weeks. Tour’s officially fucked.”
“Was already fucked after Vegas,” I said, taking a long sip. The burn felt good. “Crowd was dead. Should’ve known that was a sign.”
The conversation flowed easy — the usual post-tour bullshit. Which cities were worth it, which venues tried to screw us on the guarantee, which groupies in which city were actually memorable. Another round came. Then another.
I was on my fourth whiskey when I noticed her again. Four empties crowded the table’s edge, and through the gap between Owen’s shoulder and Brett’s stupid cast, I caught the curve of her moving between tables. A tray was balanced in her hands, her head slightly down, thinking if she kept her eyes low enough, nobody would clock her. Smart instinct. Bad execution.
I watched her over the rim of my glass, the scent of whiskey tickling my nose.
More girls had started circling our table. A stacked redhead was already in Killian’s lap. Another — some blonde with fake tits — had parked herself on the arm of the booth next to me, running her nails down my chest. I mean, I appreciated the gesture but I was not interested.
My eyes kept finding Baby Doll.
Remy, the floor manager, must’ve noticed too, because a few minutes later I saw her heading our way with a fresh bottle of top-shelf bourbon and a tray of glasses. Complimentary, no doubt. The club loved when Black Psalm came through — liked the money we wasted here even more. So, if you think about it, no bottle was actually complimentary.
She approached our table cautiously, that little slip riding high on her thighs. When she leaned forward to set the bottle down, I got a perfect view of her tits. That was it. The whiskey, the long night, and six months of watching her fuck herself on camera finally snapped something in me, and fuck if I wasn’t gonna be stupid about it.
I reached out and caught her wrist before she could straighten back up.
She froze. The whole tray rattled, glasses clinking together. Her eyes snapped to mine and — fuck — up close she was even worse. Better. Whatever. The screen hadn’t lied about the eyes, but it hadn’t done them justice either. Green, and wide as hell right now, pupils blown out with something caught somewhere between recognition and pure animal panic. A lyric popped into my head about jaded eyes.
She knew exactly who I was.
And I was pretty goddamn certain she knew that I knew exactly who she was.
“Well, ain’t you just the prettiest thing,” Owen, our bassist, chirped, drunk off his ass. I ignored him, as did she, her eyes fixed on where my hand was holding her.
“Hey,” I said. Just that. Just hey.
“Hi.” Her voice was smaller than I expected. Softer. I imagined her mumbled sweet nothings in my ear when I slipped in her.
I still had her wrist.
She glanced down at my hand. Then back up at me.
“You going to let me go?” she asked.
“Probably not,” I said honestly.
Killian shot me a glance.
Brett shothera glance.
“So, you want to join us—”
“Fifteen K,” I cut Killian off. “Hell, twenty if you ask real sweet. It’s stupid money, but I’ll pay every fucking cent. I think you know what I’m talking about.”
