Rocked by love, p.2
Rocked by Love, page 2
“What’re you having?”
“Whatever’s on tap.” I haven’t drunk beer in a long time. A case of dark malts are in my rider, but that’s for Chris. I usually drink whiskey and sometimes this moonshine that my bodyguard and I discovered during the Asia leg of my last tour. It’s 58 proof and knocks you on your ass.
“Light or regular? You look like a light guy.” His hand is on a tap, ready to pour me the wateriest beer possible.
“Even if I was a light guy, I’d have to say regular because obviously my manhood is on the line here.”
Mr. Security doesn’t crack a smile, but he does move his hand one spigot over and fills a frosty mug with a dark liquid. He has a challenging glint in his eye when he places the mug in front of me. I feel compelled to drink half of it in one go. Like I said, my manhood is being challenged.
He grunts when I set the mug down, but I can’t decipher if it’s approval or disgust. I finish it and motion for him to hit me with another. As he’s refilling my mug, I allow my gaze to wander over to where Clover disappeared. She said she’d be back, but the minutes are ticking by. To occupy myself, I inspect the interior. It’s actually a lot bigger inside than the drab exterior suggests. Had I known how big it was, I might not have stopped in, but there was something about the four-leaf clover logo and the words Get Lucky that felt like a sign. I’d been lucky to escape the stadium, lucky to find a taxi driver who was willing to take me anywhere—literally—for the right price, lucky to find a bar where no one knew me, lucky to run into a smoking hot babe like Clover. Get Lucky is my new motto.
There’s no stage here like my old college bars. Instead, a couple pool tables line the back wall. A vintage jukebox in the corner plays some old ‘80s rock, and a handful of people sit around tables, some eating, one group playing cards, and a couple looking like they are on an awkward first date. None of the patrons seem to require someone with the word Security emblazoned on their shirt.
“See a lot of fights in here?” I turn back to the bartender.
“No.”
“Maybe they haven’t drunk enough,” I muse. Early on in my career, I went on a few benders, and that was about the only time I needed security.
“You’re awfully nosy.” He wipes down a non-existent spill.
“How so? I haven’t asked you a question about your finances, your smoking habits, who you’re sleeping with. I don’t think I’ve even begun to be nosy.”
He folds his burly arms across his chest. “You trying to start a fight with me?”
I think my bodyguard would have a hard time taking this guy down.
“You always work security? Do any personal protection services?” I wonder.
His mouth thins into a tight line. He stomps over to the corner of the bar and pulls a phone from behind a bottle on the counter. His loud, deep voice barks into the receiver. “You better get down here because I’m gonna beat the pretty boy up.”
I think he meant for me to hear that.
I finish off my second beer and wave him back. “I’ll have another one.”
“You gonna start a tab or what? Only the first one was free.”
I open my wallet and consider my limited options. I have several hundred-dollar bills and a black card. Neither form of payment seems right for the setting. The credit card has my name on it, and the hundred-dollar bill is way too big for this place. I lay the bill on the counter. “For everyone here since I’m a stranger.”
Security fingers the bill and then holds it up to the light for a long moment. When he finally decides it’s authentic, he shoves it into the drawer. “No offense.”
“None taken.” I grin. I haven’t had so much fun since the after-party of my first Grammys when I lost to some industry plant whose father owns the largest recording studio in the world. All the other losers and I went out and got lit. So many wild rumors started because of that night. I might be still dating one of those strippers or the male popstar who was caught sitting on my lap for a hot second. He’d fallen, but the photo made it look like we were extra cozy that night. I leave it up for the tabloids to fight over my social life—which due to my nonstop touring has been non-existent. When you’re on tour, you’re lucky to see anything outside of the venue, the hotel, and your staff. It’s playing one night, maybe two in one city and then moving on to another city the next night. It’s how you build your fanbase, how you pay your bills, but it also is how you lose all contact with the real world.
The door opens, and I feel a shift in the air. Instinctively, I know Clover is back. A spire of electricity spikes in my veins. Her T-shirt is exactly the same with the green four-leaf clover situated on a white background. This one isn’t wet, unfortunately.
“Are you giving my bartender a hard time?” she asks when she joins Security behind the bar.
“No ma’am.”
“What even brings you to Loveland? If you were looking for Vegas, you missed it about an hour West.”
“Loveland? Is that the name of this town?” Get Lucky is real.
“Yeah,” she says slowly, considering my answer.
“I came from Vegas. It was too noisy.” I jerk my thumb toward the back of the bar. “How come you don’t have a stage for a live band?”
She stiffens. “Not really into that.”
That explains why she doesn’t recognize me.
“Not into music or not into live music?” How can anyone not be into music?
“Music,” she says.
“You have a jukebox over here.”
“It came with the place,” she snaps.
Music appears to be a touchy subject. How can I be hard over someone who doesn’t like music? I frown at my lap and silently tell my dick I’m disappointed in him. He doesn’t care.
A bell rings, and Security disappears behind a door I hadn’t noticed before. When he returns, he has a tray of burgers, nachos, and sizzling fajitas. My stomach growls.
“I’ll have to take one of those.”
“There are three things on this tray.”
“I’ll have one of all of them.” I never eat before a concert, and I’d forgotten about that until just this moment. Usually, I eat after I’m done performing and then pass out full of carbs and red meat.
Security dips his head toward the kitchen. “Hey, Clov—”
“I’m on it,” she replies and ducks into the back kitchen.
The short exchange makes me testy. They’ve known each other so long that they’re finishing each other’s sentences. I can’t say why that bothers me, but it does. Like I know it’s irrational as hell to get angry over the fact that she’s more friendly with Security than me, but in the back of my head, it should be me finishing her sentences, and it should be my mind she’s reading. We should be in bed together, naked and fucking.
“You keep looking at her ass like that, I’m gonna take your eyes out,” Security growls in my ear as he passes.
When he returns from delivering the food, I ask him straight-out, “You two a thing?”
I hadn’t intended to fight this brick house, but I mean, if I gotta do it, I gotta do it. He’ll have a weakness somewhere. Everyone does.
He scowls. “No, she’s my boss.”
“No workplace romances allowed in the bar?”
“The problem with your type is that your mind is on only one thing.”
“My mind is on food,” I lie, but he’s right. My mind is totally in my pants.
“Bullshit.” Security can see right through me.
Thankfully, Clover appears with the nachos. “The rest will be up in a sec.” Sensing the tension in the air, she bounces suspiciously back and forth between Security and me. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Security turns and heads over to the door.
“I think he’s feeling territorial,” I say before popping a chip into my mouth.
“Over what?”
“I think he might have a thing for you.”
“Doubtful. James is in a committed relationship with Brian, who owns the hardware store.”
“So no one‘s gonna jack me up if I ask for your number.”
“No one will object, but you’re not getting it either.”
“Why not?”
“For at least a hundred reasons, the first of which is I don’t know you. You could be a serial killer.”
“Your radar might be a little broken. The vibe I’m giving off is not that I wanna kill you but that I wanna kiss you.”
CHAPTER 4
CLOVER
His words take me a bit by surprise. He could be on the cover of a magazine with how handsome he is, where I’m more the sporty small-town girl. Then again, if he wants to get laid, he doesn’t have a ton of options in the bar at the moment, and he might think I’m an easy bet. It’s a good thing he left Vegas because he’s going to bust and not in the way that he’s wanting.
“You’re not my type.” His brows lift. I get a small kick out of the fact that I’ve surprised him with my response. I’m sure girls fall all over themselves to get his attention or for so much as a mere kiss. “I don’t do one-night stands.” I get right to the point.
“Thank fuck.” He lets out a breath, his body relaxing back into his seat.
“You’re not looking to get laid?” Now I’m the surprised one. Is he turning me down now? I’m so confused and oddly a smidge disappointed. Which is crazy because I don’t even know this man.
“I wasn’t, but I wouldn’t turn you down to save my life. But you scared me for a second. I thought you weren’t into men.”
“Oh.” I laugh, getting how he got there from my response. “I think you’re handsome enough to have any girl second-guess what she’s into.” As soon as the words slip past my lips, I want to grab them back. I can see the sparkle of hope in his eyes, and I know he’s going to latch on to the fact that I said he’s handsome.
“So you think I’m handsome.” He gives me a charming smile that has my toes curling. This man is dangerous. Thankfully, James appears with the rest of Dylan’s food so I don’t have to answer that question.
“Let me grab you some napkins,” I say, trying to think of any excuse to get away from him. I need a minute to think and get my bearings. There is something about this man that has me off-kilter. Something I’m not used to. When I’d gone to change my shirt, I’d made sure my hair was in place and put on lip gloss and mascara.
“These are fine.” He grabs a few of the bar napkins.
“You need ketchup.” I make another attempt at escaping him and his charm.
“Are you trying to get away from me?” He ignores his food, all his attention focused directly on me. I’ve never wanted attention from a man while not wanting it at the same time.
“I’m doing my job.”
“Aren’t bartenders part-time therapists?” I snort a laugh.
“Sometimes.” I shrug. At times, I enjoy listening to people tell me their stories. Other times not so much. “What’s your story, Dylan? What brought you to Loveland?”
“How about we go question for question? I answer yours but you gotta answer mine in return.”
“What makes you think I really want to hear your answer and I’m not just doing my job?”
“Ouch.” He puts his hand on his chest, pretending to be wounded, but I catch something in his eyes. My words did hit, and I’d only meant to tease. I didn’t think he’d have an ego that could be bruised with the way he looks.
“All right. Answer mine and then I’ll give you one.” I finally relent because I do want to know why this man is here. It’s more common for people to flee to Vegas than to here.
“Needed to get out. Was starting to feel like I couldn’t breathe anymore.”
“You’re running?”
“Ah-ah. It’s my turn.”
“Right,” I huff. What can he really ask me that would bother me to answer?
“Music. Why do you hate it?” Holy shit. Out of all the things he could have asked, that is actually one I don’t much care to talk about.
“Some people are the opposite, Dylan. Vegas calls to them. I was only a small girl when my mother took off to make it big. She really had the voice of an angel,” I admit, not wanting to lie about my mother. Even though she abandoned my dad and me to pursue her own dreams.
“Had?” His face softens, and he puts down his burger he was about to take a bite out of.
“Ah-ah. It’s my turn.” I tease, reminding him of his own rules.
“That’s a hell of a cliffhanger.”
“She’s not dead. At least not that I’m aware of. The last time and only time I looked her up, she wasn’t singing, but she is working in the industry.” I try to keep any emotion out of my voice.
I know she got some notoriety because one time I heard her songs playing over the speakers at the grocery store. I knew her voice. She used to sing to me every night before I went to bed. I’d turned and walked out of the grocery store leaving my half-filled cart behind. The barrage of emotions I’d felt had been too much for me to handle.
When Dad passed, I don’t know why I did it, but I thought maybe I should tell her. After a quick search on the internet, I knew she didn’t give a shit about us. She has a whole new life.
“She left you. That’s fucked up. I don’t see how anyone can walk away from you.”
“You’re really good with your pickup lines.” I grab a fresh cup to get him another beer.
“It’s not a line.”
“Well—” I set his drink back down. “It wasn’t only me she left. It was this place and my dad. She never looked back. Not even when my dad passed.” My voice cracks. This time I can’t hide my emotions. I almost could forgive her for leaving me, but I will never be able to forgive her for hurting my dad.
“I’m sorry.” He reaches out and grabs my hand resting on the bar. “How long ago?”
“Almost nine months.” He gives my hand a squeeze. That same flash of heat from when he’d grabbed my hand earlier flows through me. “I miss him.”
When he first passed, it was all people wanted to talk to me about. I’d often end up in tears, so now the regulars never bring him up to me. It’s bittersweet. Some days I want to remember everything about him, and others I want to lock it away in the back of my mind.
“Your turn.” He doesn't let go of my hand.
“You’re not running away from a wife or girlfriend, are you?”
“Never had one, but things change.” Before I can ask him what that means, someone comes up to the bar to order a round.
“I’ll be back.” I pull my hand from his to go make their drinks.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I hear him say.
Liar. Everyone leaves. It’s the way of the world. Even if they don’t want to.
CHAPTER 5
DYLAN
The voice of an angel comment tickles some memory receptor in the back of my head, but I can’t quite bring it forward. There are a few singers that have the “angel” adjective used to describe their voices—Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, maybe Ariana Grande for everyone born after 2000. There’s someone else, but the name is escaping me.
I think about what I want to ask next. What is her type since she ruled me out? Or maybe what type of guy does she think I am? Other than someone who is into one-night stands. I wonder how I give that vibe off. Is it something I’m wearing?
She swings back into range.
“My turn,” I remind her.
She grabs a mug and flips one of the taps down. “Shoot.”
“Favorite memory.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Thought for sure you would go with a sex question.”
“Gotta keep you on your toes.” Inwardly I’m sighing with relief that I changed up the topic at the last minute.
She sets aside the mug and grabs another. “Favorite memory?” Her fingers dance along the top of the keg pull as if she’s sifting through, and discarding, memory cards in her brain.
“Halloween. Age ten. I dressed up as a Red Ranger, the OG power ranger, and my dad went as Magna Defender since he’s one of the canonically oldest power rangers. As we were out trick-or-treating, we ran into another dude dressed as the evil Green Ranger. Dad pretended to engage him in battle. As the two were fighting, the evil Green Ranger tripped on a rock or something and fell into some bushes. When he got up, his costume ripped, and his bare ass was hanging out.
“Dad tore his plastic pumpkin bucket in half, and then using his belt and some fabric from his own costume, somehow fixed the pumpkin halves over the guy’s ass. The other dude looked so funny with his butt covered in the plastic pumpkin that I nearly peed my pants laughing.” She arranges three full mugs on a tray and hoists it on top of her shoulder. “I’m going to deliver these, and when I come back, it’ll be my turn.”
I can’t wait. Her next question requires some nimbleness. She slides into the stool next to me and lays her tray on the bar. “What do you do for a living?”
Not music. “I’m in crowd engagement.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Is that like corporate speak for ‘social media influencer’?”
I contemplate my sixty million followers on Instagram. “Yeah, something like that. Does that make me more or less like a guy who wants to have a one-night stand?”
Her mouth opens, but before she can answer, I raise my hand. “Forget it. I don’t want to waste my question on that.”
A quick grin spreads across her face. “You’re lucky because I was about to answer.”
Between the curve of her lips and the scrunch of her nose, she’s so fucking beautiful I could eat my fist. I want her badly, and I have to be in Los Angeles in two days for a four-night gig at SoFi Stadium. How am I going to swing this? Because I don’t want her to be in my bed for a single night. I don’t want to stop trading questions with her. This is the most fun I’ve had since forever—as in, I legitimately can’t recall the last time I enjoyed myself so much.
Sure, being on stage is a high that can’t be matched by anything, but that’s a momentary rush of endorphins and it fades quickly. Usually by the time the lift hits the ground floor, I’m dead, and only tendrils of the stage’s intense emotional glory remains. Bantering with Clover is something I could see doing every day and not tiring of it, and I can only imagine how good she’d feel in bed. Better than the stage, I’d bet.
