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She tipped her head up and slapped a big smile on her face. “No, we don’t. Let’s just get upstairs.”
He nodded.
They shuffled off and she breathed in a sigh of relief. Ryan didn’t exactly have the asshole gene that the check-in dude did, but she had to push down the jittery reaction at the flash of anger in his spring-green eyes.
The mixture of fear and thrill was definitely not a good thing.
At least not when it came to Ryan. He was her safety blanket, her warm sweatshirt on a cold night. He wasn’t the guy who was supposed to get her revved.
Ever.
Chapter Two
Ryan Waters groaned at the stained carpeting of the narrow stairs. Hummingbird Motel, my ass. This place was a toilet covered in a thin veneer of civility.
He grasped the railing and dragged himself up the first seven stairs. His side throbbed with each step.
The bouncer from the Red Rooster Club had been fairly merciful. Ryan had only taken the house for twenty grand. A drop in the bucket when it came to the underground gambling room. His buddy, Zane, from Brooklyn Dawn had told him about the place.
One wall of televisions fed the sports gambling portion of the establishment. Ryan had never been into that kind of betting. He wasn’t the type to bet on anyone but himself. It was too easy for a sporting event to go sideways because one of the starting players was having a bad night—or worse, an injury.
No, he’d been locked into poker. It was man against man and a little bit of nature thrown in. He’d always been good at reading people. Add in a little math with statistics and card decks, and he’d run the table for an hour before the floor manager had gotten wise to his talents.
He wasn’t even sure one could technically call it cheating. Just because he was an observant guy didn’t make him a monster. However, counting cards was frowned upon in most establishments.
Instead of leaving with his windfall, he’d been kicked to the curb quite literally.
All his money, including what he’d started out with when he walked in the door, was now in the jacket pocket of the guy with ham hocks for fists.
He’d gotten off easy, to be honest, but it didn’t make the steel-toed boot to the ribs any easier to bear. He’d nursed his share of black eyes over the years. His little brother, Jason, had always been quick to swing when they were kids.
Add in Michael and West’s penchant for college shenanigans, and he’d learned how to take a punch. The fact that he didn’t remember how he’d ended up in the alley was the clincher. The dude had a helluva right cross. Denver finding him in that alley had been unfortunate, but it was a lot better than having to explain his situation to his bandmates.
At least she’d keep it quiet.
Ryan huffed out a breath as they rounded the bend for the fourth flight of stairs. The stench of musty piss strengthened, as did the temperature. July in the city was a steambath of bad choices, and he’d walked right into a number of them tonight.
Even worse, he’d lost way more than he could afford to. A hit single and a platinum record didn’t bring a bevy of cash with it—quite the misconception there. The band earned a good living—one that kept him in soda and kitty litter for Elvis, the Siamese cat who sometimes stayed at his place.
Technically a stray, Elvis did what he wanted. They both liked it that way. And he’d never had to worry about anyone else since he’d moved to Los Angeles.
He lived with West, but neither of them did much more than land at the apartment as a last resort. Between touring, the studio, and the occasional hookup, there wasn’t much reason to stay there, but they needed a home base. And he didn’t want to fuck with West’s precarious situation with Lauren. They were living in their little happy bubble and Ryan wasn’t going to be the one to pop it.
Now he was overextended to the point where he wouldn’t make rent without a serious intervention from a money fairy. He could probably get an advance from Lila, their manager, but that would bring questions.
Again, questions he didn’t want to answer. He’d gotten a taste of winning and had sat at the table for too long. He’d gotten too cocky.
Even now he wanted to borrow a twenty from Denver and turn it into the grand he needed. Just a little seed money and he’d be good to go again. He’d be more careful this time.
He clenched his fingers until his bones cracked.
“You’re not telling me something.”
“What’s there to say?”
Not much when your best friend had to peel you off a pile of garbage bags. Oh, now he was supposed to ask her for money too?
The idea of it made his dick shrivel to a bean.
