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Winking, I face the bar again, dismissing him.
He takes a moment to gather his composure before taking the remaining three shot glasses to his table.
A few seconds later, deep chuckles and guffaws come from his buddies at the table.
Bet they’re teasing him.
Over the next hour, Tomer and Jonesy visit the bartender to order beers. Jonesy attempts conversation, but I instantly shoot him down. He’s not the mark, and I need Klein to believe he has a chance with me. Coming off easy won’t lure him in.
No. Someone like him needs to feel special, and he seems pure. Although good boys are typically attracted to bad girls, Klein won’t spill his secrets to someone he sees as nothing but a naughty one-night companion.
I catch him watching me in the mirror several times throughout the evening.
Unfortunately, he never returns to the bar. I’ll have to entice him back into conversation before he leaves. Grabbing my purse, I stroll to the old jukebox in the corner, praying they have something I can use. Judging by his Spotify history, he’s got an obvious weakness for Vegas crooners. Let’s hope this old jukebox shares the same affinity.
Jackpot.
After inserting a few coins, I make two selections and wait. He needs to knowIplayed these songs. As the first few notes fill the air, I sway my hips in time to this dreadful tune while casually flipping through the songbook.
You know what? This song isn’tthatbad.
“It’s Not Unusual” by Tom Jones plays for less than thirty seconds before Klein appears beside me, summoned by my siren call. Or the siren call of Tom Jones.
Klein’s delicious scent fills my lungs. What is that? Butter? Chocolate?
Leaning against the side of the machine, he says, “Interesting song choice for a young lady like you.”
Bringing my hand to my chest, I gasp and feign surprise at his sudden appearance. “I guess I’m a bit of an old soul.”
His grin spreads, revealing pearly white teeth. “We have that in common.”
With him here, it’s time for the next phase. Get him talking.
“What’s your name, or should I keep calling you stud?”
“I’ll answer to stud, but you can call me Cal.”
Interesting. By all accounts, he doesn’t normally use his first name. On his Redleg employment application he put an asterisk beside his first name and wrote out:But I won’t answer to it.
Nibbling my lower lip, I hold his gaze. “It’s nice to meet you, Cal.”
“And what should I call you?”
Blinking, I tease, “I bet you’ve been talking about me with your friends all night. What have you been calling me?”
Pursing his lips, he hums and flits his eyes upward like he’s deep in thought. “I didn’t have your name, so I’ve been referring to you asmine.”
Another boisterous laugh escapes me. Fuck, that wassocheesy.
But I need to act impressed, so I play it up and invite him to join me at a table in the corner. He doesn’t ask my name again, which should be a good thing. After all, I’m here to get intel from him, not the other way around. The focus needs to stay on Cal.
Yet it feels wrong.
For some reason, I want him to knowme.
And that’s a big no-no.
My inner pimp doesnotapprove. The exchange of information isn’t supposed to go both ways.
