“You
started without us.” The dark-haired cocky bastard from before makes a show of
moving my road case so he can sit in the seat adjacent to mine.
The quiet
guy who offered to help me carry it heads for the counter, and is immediately assailed
by some desperate woman with a napkin.
“You’re
really something, huh?” I muse as I lift my coffee to take a sip.
“I like to
think so.” His gaze bores into mine despite the fact the horn bag with the
napkin is lining him up in her sights. “What kind of music do you play?”
“What do
you care?”
We enter
what appears to be a staring contest while he formulates his answer; piercing
eyes fix firmly on me as I hold my coffee to my chest. His black hair is spiked
haphazardly, yet a few loose tendrils across his face give him the mysterious
edge that I imagine his groupies love. The T-shirt he wears is torn,
fashionably so, and just enough that I can get a glimpse as the ink he hides
below.
I sip my
coffee with a smirk.
He leans
forward, the studded cuff on his left wrist making a soft clink as it hits the
timber surface.
“Ohmygod,”
the horn bag breathes in one rushed syllable as she arrives at my table. “I
can’t believe you’re in here.”
The cocky
asshole drags his gaze from me and smiles at her, laying on the charm. “Good
place to get a coffee, right?”
“The best,”
she gushes, oblivious to the intense standoff she interrupted.
I sit back
and sip my latte, sizing up the woman. She seems to be in her late twenties,
early thirties at most. What surprises me is that she’s dressed like a soccer
mom. Not exactly what I’d expect a fan of a man kitted out in denim, leather,
and enough chains to rival a prison warden to look like.
“Can you
sign this?”
“Kris leave
me any room?” He takes the napkin from her, brushing his fingers over hers.
The woman
damn near comes on the spot. Slick move,
asshole.
“I think
there’s a space up here.” And in one swift move, Soccer Mom transforms to
Desperate Housewife with the tilt of her hips. The blouse that mere seconds ago
demurely hid her assets now hangs like a slack sail in the Dead Sea, giving the
cocky asshole to my left the perfect view of her ample tits.
Shoot me if
I ever turn into one of those.
“Thanks.”
He takes the pen she offers and then scratches a quick message for her like he
probably has a million times before.
She leaves
with her smile a little wider, and her panties more than likely a darn sight
wetter.
“Excuse
me.” I pull my phone out, amused to find him frowning at me in my periphery.
“What are
you doing?” He leans closer to see my screen, wafting what has to be pure
pheromones under my nostrils. How the
fuck do they make men’s cologne so addictive?
“I’m
googling your name, since you won’t introduce yourself properly.”
He laughs,
the rich sound traveling throughout the shop as his bandmate, Kris, returns
with a table number.
“Shouldn’t
you have like a private coffee shop, or something?” I sass. “Don’t celebrities
like you get places shut down so they can drink in peace?” The result comes up
on my screen, along with an assortment of very hot performance shots. Damn, this man can rock studs.
“She’s
kidding right?” Kris mumbles to the cocky asshole.
“I don’t
think so.” He smiles at me, leaning back casually in his seat. “I can’t believe
you don’t know my name.” The jerk spreads his legs wide, a denim-clad knee
perilously close to my thigh.
“Do you
know every stranger you meet’s name?” I lift an eyebrow at him. “Rey?”
“Babe, I’m
not a stranger.” Fucker still smiles. “I haven’t had to introduce myself for
the past four and half years.”
“Since we
first made Billboard,” Kris adds quietly.
I like him.
He’s not in-your-face like this jackass to my left. He’s quiet, humble even. He actually makes me want to hold a
conversation with him.
Rey, on the
other hand…. “You’re a little full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Kris smiles
behind his linked hands, elbows on the table.
“Would you prefer to be full of me?” Rey
wiggles a pierced eyebrow.
“You have
to be shitting me,” I mumble, looking away.
“You never
answered my question, Tabitha,” Rey
taunts. “Or can I call you Tabby, since you’re like a wild cat, all claws and
snarl?”
I almost
smile at his comment… almost.
“Tabitha.”
I look back at the guy, pissed at myself for recognizing that he is in fact
pretty damn good-looking. Bastard. “And
I play classical. A little bit of crossover.”
“Classical.”
Rey looks like he’s fit to burst. “People still listen to that?”
“They do.”
I give him a hard stare, and then shift focus to Kris. “In all honesty, I am
surprised you two don’t have security or some kind of protection if you’re that
shit hot.”
He lifts an
inked finger and points to a burly guy outside the shop. If I didn’t know
better, I’d think the man was Joe Public. He’s big, sure, but he’s dressed in
sweats and a T-shirt. No earpiece, no Secret Service-style shades. He just
looks… normal.
“I think
his name’s Pete,” Kris mumbles. “He turned up late. Hence why you got in.”
“You think his name is Pete?” I snort a
laugh.
“He’s not
our normal crew,” Rey fills in. “Hired while we’re in town.”
“Oh.”
Frustrated by how quickly the conversation has turned comfortable, I redirect
back to the issue at hand. “Can I ask why you’re at my table?”
“We need
coffee.” Rey shrugs.
“At my table, though?”
“Figured we
got off on the wrong foot.” He wrinkles his nose. It’s cute. No it’s not. Focus, Tab.
“Can’t
blame me for that.” I take a nonchalant sip of my coffee… and promptly choke on
a bubble of foam that gets stuck on the roof of my mouth near my throat. Slick.
“Can’t
blame us, either,” Rey retorts.
It’s okay, asshole. I don’t need a pat on the
back or anything. Just unable to breathe for a beat there, but you just take it
easy, okay?
“Rick
organized the whole thing,” he finishes, unfazed by the tears teetering on the
rims of my eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,
Kris. I am now. Thanks.” I wipe the moisture away before I end up looking
bat-shit crazy with mascara down my face.
“Where you
from?”
“Pardon?” I
glare at Rey.
“Your
accent. You’re not American.”
I give the
muppet a slow clap.
His
nostrils flare when a few customers look across at our table. “Are you
Austral—”
I lift a
palm to stop him. “Don’t say it.”
“What?”
“Don’t you
dare assume I’m Australian. There’s more than one country down there, you
know.”
He stares
at me, blank. Fuck my life.
“Kris, help
him out here.” I down the last of my coffee.
“New
Zealand,” he murmurs to Rey.
“Oh.” His
face stays blank as a clean slate.
“You’ve
heard of it, right?” I ask.
“Of course
I have,” he scoffs.
“But you
didn’t know where it was.”
Lisa Everyday Reads 