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Tater made a face, then leaned over with a groan to pick the cap off the floor. It shouldn’t take such a damn effort to bend over.
“Empty the trash soon’s you can. Gonna go see what this chick wants.”
“Probably to call you Daddy,” Possum called out.
Dodge lifted the hinged bar and let it drop back into place. “Forget Dutch shootin’ you. Better sleep with one eye open, asshole.”
“What the fuck do you think we’ve been doin’ ever since Scar moved into our bunkroom?” Tater Tot called out loud enough for Dodge but not loud enough for Scar to hear him from where the other prospect stood by the front entrance.
“Rumor has it, circle-jerks,” he tossed over his shoulder as he worked his way through the crowded tables toward the jukebox, now playing the classic Get It On by T. Rex.
Thank fuck Stella left picking the music selection for the jukebox to him.
Even better, now that the new jukebox was digital, he could change shit out all the time depending on his mood. He could block songs, too. Like the ones sounding like hillbilly mating calls.
Too many folks in these parts liked country music and not the good shit, but the stuff that made Dodge want to stab his eardrums. The shit that made hound dogs howl.
“Heard you’re lookin’ for me.”
She continued to scroll through the music selection. Her short fingernails were painted black, reminding him of Billie. Her slender fingers had a few rings encircling them. She had a tiny tattoo on the webbing between her right thumb and index finger and a silver chain bracelet with a pendant hanging from her left wrist.
At first he thought it was a heart, then he realized it was shaped like a guitar pick.
“You need better music,” she murmured.
Fuck, for as petite as she was, her voice sounded smoky as fuck. He had a thing for that shit. Like Stella’s. The prez’s ol’ lady had a voice that could give him a raging hard-on if he closed his eyes and just listened. And if he let it.
He didn’t because he liked breathing too damn much.
“Music in that thing’s just fine.”
She turned and she might have well have kicked him in the chest.
He forced himself to breath as the soul-piercing dark brown eyes landed on him. They were accentuated with black eye liner that wasn’t overly thick but enough to make her eyes stand out. The rest of her makeup was light, not over-done like Billie’s preferred goth look.
She tipped her face up to him, her head slightly tilted. “Are you in charge here?”
“The manager.”
“Does that mean you’re in charge?”
The sarcasm was too thick to miss. “Exactly what it means.”
“I saw on your website that you schedule bands Friday and Saturday nights.”
Having Shay do the bar’s website had actually helped. He was skeptical at first but was now glad he didn’t fight it.
“Yep.” He let his gaze slide down her face and beyond, taking his time and not bothering to hide his curiosity.
He was right. Too fucking young. Though, what was behind her eyes said otherwise.
He knew that look. Only too damn well.
He ignored it and continued on.
Even with the peek-a-boo black sweater covering the tank top underneath it—especially because of the tank top being white—he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. And what was under the cotton was perky and definitely fucking wide awake.
He’d seen a lot of tits and hers looked fresh out of their teens. But didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate them.
That made his answering “yeah” get caught in his throat. He cleared it and repeated his response.
“Do you always eye fuck women like that?”
She didn’t sound offended but more as if she was emotionally drained. He understood that, too. “Women, sometimes. Jail bait, no.”
“I’m far from jail bait.”
“Don’t care.” Did he say that more for himself than her? Fuck him if he did. She looked like trouble he didn’t need.
Just then, the song Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana began to spew from the speakers throughout Pete’s.
Wasn’t that the fucking truth?
Christ.
“Neither do I,” she said. She glanced around the interior of the bar. “My question is if you book bands and if you need to fill some spots on your calendar.”
“For who?”
“For a band.”
“No shit. For whose band?”
“Mine.”
He blinked. “We don’t book teeny-bopper bands.”
“Good. Because I hate teeny-bopper bands.”
What the fuck was going on? “How old are you?”
Her head tilted to the side. “How old are you?”
Jesus. She might be tiny but her attitude wasn’t. He gritted his teeth. “Christ… What kinda band you got?”
“The kind that plays music.”
Dodge sucked in a slow breath. “Alrighty, then. You can see yourself out. Scar there by the front door will hold it open for you.” And plant a boot on your ass to help you through it.
He spun on his own boot and, before he could take a second step, a hand grabbed his arm to stop him. “Wait.”
