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“Possum’s makin’ you more grub,” he told them when he reached their table. He wasn’t getting his fingers anywhere near their plates or mouths as they scarfed down what little remained of their food.
The guys lifted their eyes but didn’t stop eating.
“Thanks, man,” the shaggy blond finally said, talking with his mouth full. He wiped his hand off on his jeans and jutted it out toward Dodge, who gave it a quick shake. “Nico.” The bass guitarist jerked his chin toward the dark-haired guy with the ponytail who played lead guitar. “Rex. And that’s Eddie,” he finished, tipping his head toward the redheaded drummer. “And you already met Syn last night.”
Syn. He bet it was with a Y like the band name. He also wondered if it was her real name or a stage name and if it was her real name… Why? What mother named their daughter Syn?
He thought of all the ol’ ladies of the Originals. Women like them did. Also, mothers who named their kid after a fucking Dodge Dart.
Maybe it was a shortened version of a longer name. Like Syndee or Synder.
His eyes sliced to her. She sat with her back to him, picking at her food, not inhaling it like the others. Though, her plate was practically empty. She could’ve already hoovered whatever Possum served her.
“Syn,” Dodge repeated.
Her spine snapped straight and her head lifted, but she didn’t turn to look at him.
“Need a minute with you.” When she didn’t respond, he asked Nico, “She’s in charge, right?”
Nico frowned and glanced at Syn. “Yeah, she’s in charge. It’s her gig, we’re just lucky to back her up.”
Wasn’t that the fucking truth. “Then I need to speak to her for a minute.”
“You can say whatever you need to say here,” she finally said. She sounded tired. Her voice a bit raspier now than earlier.
They had ended up playing two sets instead of only one. Her vocal chords were probably tired, too. Since he wasn’t a musician—and was told to shut the fuck up the last time he belted out a song—he wasn’t sure if that was even possible.
“I could,” Dodge started slowly. He tilted his head and stared at the back of hers. “But I won’t.”
All three guys stopped eating and stared at her, none of them hiding their confusion.
“Just need a minute of your time before Possum brings out more food. Then you can get back to eatin’.”
She shoved the plate in front of her away. She picked up her water bottle and took a long swig from it. Long enough that she almost emptied it.
“It’s about business,” he added. “Got somethin’ you might be interested in.”
“Money. I’m interested in money.”
“Ain’t we all,” he muttered. “You don’t wanna talk now, we can talk later.”
He took a step out of the way to save his shins when she abruptly shoved her chair back with a loud scrape along the floor.
When she turned, he could see it on her face. The exhaustion. Not just physical but mental, too.
Both in her eyes and under them.
He tipped his head toward the bar and without waiting, headed in that direction, hoping she’d follow. If she didn’t, it was her loss. He wouldn’t kiss her ass.
Well, he’d like to, but not in that way.
He ducked behind the bar, grabbed another bottle of water from the cooler and turned.
Amazingly enough, she was coming in his direction.
She was like a magnet in motion and his eyes the steel. He couldn’t pull them free as her slender hips rocked and rolled as she moved across the floor. It had to be the high-heeled boots causing it tonight, since last night he hadn’t noticed that motion at all.
She had thrown her sweatshirt back on and zipped it closed, so he could no longer see the exposed skin of her belly or her bra through her peek-a-boo fishnet shirt. Or that graceful line of her spine.
The line that his tongue was itching to lick.
Damn shame.
When she stopped across the bar from him, he offered her the now sweating water bottle.
She took it and mumbled a, “Thanks.”
“You ain’t drinkin’ to save your voice or is it ‘cause of your age?”
“I’m not drinking because I don’t want to drink.”
He considered her a moment. “How old are you?”
“How old are you?”
Christ. “We did this last night.”
“We did. And my age shouldn’t matter.”
It shouldn’t but it did.
“What should matter is how we play.”
“You’re better than them,” he said.
“Not too many musicians want to travel the country playing in dives and living in a shitty bus.”
“No truer words…”
“That means I have to take what I can get.” She turned her head slightly, probably to make sure her bandmates couldn’t hear her. “They’re loyal.”
He studied her profile. “Loyalty’s important.”
“And they let me make all the decisions,” she murmured.
“That’s important, too. If you know what you’re doin’.”
