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Even if last night had been the crème de la crème of marvelous encounters.
On my nightstand, my phone rang. I whipped my attention that way and gaped at it sitting so close and yet so far away.
It rang again, and I could make out the name “Sticks” on the screen. Perfect. If I could confide in anyone on earth during a situation like this, it would be him. I knew I could count on Sticks for discretion, loyalty and hopefully some freaking help.
Now, I just had to finagle a way to answer his call.
I swung my leg over and used my big toe to try to slide the answer button on. Took two tries, but by God, I did it.
With another tap of the trusty toe, I turned it to speakerphone. “Hey, man,” I panted out, impressed by how casual I was able to sound while handcuffed buck-ass naked to my bed. “What’s up?”
“Not much.” His voice filled my apartment and was like music to my ears. “I was starving and thought pizza sounded good for lunch. Want to come with?”
“Sure,” I said; I even shrugged a bare shoulder to keep it all laid-back and casual-like. Yep, I was just chilling here without a care in the world.
“Cool. I’ll swing by and pick you up in a bit, then.”
“Sounds good. But, uh, quick question first.”
When I didn’t ask anything within five seconds, he said, “O...kay. Shoot.”
I bit my lip, debating whether I really had it in me to confess what had happened. The embarrassment would kill me. And though he’d be the kindest about it, I doubt even Sticks would let me live this down.
But then I thought about the whole Stephen King thing, and my bladder gave another lurch, reminding me how full it was. So I clenched my teeth and sucked up my pride.
“You don’t happen to have...handcuff keys, do you?”
One Month Earlier
Rocking my zebra-striped Chuck Taylors, ripped fishnet hose, blue jean miniskirt, silver-studded belt and a skintight tee featuring the band The Pretty Reckless, I readjusted my wig full of spiky blonde hair.
My toes tapped to the rhythm of the muffled music hammering through the closed door, and I let it pour through me, plugging me into the mood...until the drummer on the other side of the wall missed a beat.
Feeling the sympathy, I winced even as my heart accelerated with anticipation.
“So long, sucka.” The guy next to me chuckled as the guitars and bass inside the studio lurched to a stop, cutting the song short.
I glanced sideways at my bench companion, and he smirked my way, lifting his fist for a congratulatory bump. Since he was decked out in metal and tattoos, I figured he was competition, but ...oh well. I complied, knocking my knuckles against his as a small grin twitched across my lips.
There went one less drummer out of our way.
Picturing the ass-chewing the dude inside the auditioning room must be getting, I began a countdown, wondering how long it would take for the band to kick him out of there.
“Ten, nine, eight—” I murmured under my breath, never reaching seven because the double doors burst open, and a pissed-off guy in dreadlocks stormed into the hall.
“Fuckers,” he growled before sending a piercing scowl to the row of waiting applicants sitting on the bench against the opposite wall, all of us hoping to succeed where he had obviously failed. He gave us a derisive snort and spun away. His rampage down the hall accompanied him kicking one door and throwing his drumsticks as hard as he could toward a trash can.
“Kind of a sore loser, don’t you think?” my bench companion mused mildly as he watched the temper tantrum.
“Meh.” I shrugged. “I’ve seen my six-year-old cousin throw down more drama than that over a broken doll.”
With a smirk, he gave me an approving nod. “You’re all right, rocker chick.”
I was better than all right. But I didn’t want to scare him. I could tell by the cocky gleam in his eyes, he was certain he’d do better than I would today.
Didn’t want to crush his fragile ego, so I merely sent him a cool smile. Yeah, I was all right.
“Next,” an irritated voice called from within the auditioning room, making my heart leap into my throat.
