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He eased back against the wrought-iron headboard until she was cradled into his body. His back wasn’t happy with the situation, but he’d grin and bear it.
For her, he would.
He didn’t know how long they stayed that way. Eventually, they ended up in some crazy pretzel that shouldn’t have been comfortable, but it so was.
Maybe he’d have to invest in a circular bed. His bandmate Jules crowed all the time about the one she and her guys, Tris and Randy, had in their bedroom.
The next time he woke it was to a crowing rooster from his phone and an empty bed. He fumbled for his phone and found it next to him on the mattress.
“Den?” He squinted down at his phone. An ungodly seven stared back at him, as well as a twenty.
The twenty and a white envelope stuffed with his rent money cleared out his brain faster than anything. “What the hell?” He looked around the room, but there was no trace of her.
Even her scent was gone.
She’d left the damn money like he’d earned it last night. What in the fuck?
He stumbled out of the bed into the bathroom and found his shirt and jeans folded on the sink with another piece of aged stationery on top.
“This should get you to the radio station. Had to get to the bus,” he read aloud.
He crinkled the note and tossed it into the waste can below the sink. She’d just left him there?
Christ.
He stepped into his jeans and pulled his stiff air-dried shirt on. He looked like he’d been on a goddamn bender.
Or like he’d been fucked to within an inch of his life.
Ding, ding—hello, door number two with a whole new vice.
One Miss Denver Casey.
Son of a bitch.
Chapter Four
Wasn’t the morning after supposed to be blissful? All about the shiny, happy feelings and afterglow?
So far, her blissed-out level was minus twenty-two. And not because the sex had sucked.
Worse, so much worse, it had been amazing.
The distance between New York City and a suburb of Albany was not far. Except when you had stubble burn between your thighs and a hickey-slash-bruise at the exact spot where your bra rubbed against your breastbone. Then driving was hell.
Ryan had his bruises and wounds too, though some of the visible ones were already improving. Good thing, since the band had made sure to comment. He looked way better than he had last night. Guess a shower and a night of sex had helped heal what ailed him. Or else that alley—and her memories—had made his injuries seem worse than they were in reality.
Fucking memories.
They were a big part of why she remembered her boundaries. She didn’t sleep with people she worked with. Or people she was friends with. Or much of anyone period since she’d learned her lesson.
Some people did well as part of a couple. She was not one of those. Sure, she had needs like anyone else did, and when hers became overwhelming, she did one of two things.
She went toy shopping, and not at F.A.O Schwartz. Or she had a nice, discreet, no-strings thing for a night with some random guy with low expectations, an even lower ranking on the possessiveness scale and, ideally, a zip code far away from her own. Well, her parents’ mailbox anyway, which was as close to a permanent address as she got.
By choice. All of this was by choice, and she was happy, thank you very much, despite today’s mental gymnastics.
Yet more proof that she was absolutely not suited to pairing up. Even for a night, it was dicey. She just was not meant to know the last names of the guys she slept with.
