Page 46 of Never To Suffer (The Hollywoodland #4)

I push my boobs up as I watch Racket pour a Jack and Ginger and head over to the guy who hasn’t even raised his head to look around.

How does anyone do that? Sit in a bar full of raucous bands and fans without being swept up in the commotion and camaraderie?

My brain cannot wrap around that idea, which is part of why I’m drawn to him.

He’s a mystery, a puzzle box, a thing I need to take apart while he takes me apart.

Confusion lines his face when the drink slides in front of him, and he looks down the bar at me.

There’s interest. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t squeeze my legs together as he stood up from his barstool.

He’s taller than Xander, shorter than Skylar, and he might beat Skylar in an arm-wrestling competition. Which I’d pay to watch.

“I’m told I have you to thank for trying to get me drunk?

” His velvet laced voice has me hooked already.

He reaches out and puts the drink on the bar, and I get a look at his tattooed forearms. The ink goes further up, but he’s wearing long sleeves, and they’re only rolled up so far.

That’s when I notice he’s wearing a dress shirt. And a vest.

A dad? At a rock show? “You look familiar, but?—”

He shakes his head with a deep, dark laugh. It’s sexy as hell. “We met once, last year. I’m surprised you remember at all”

“Last year?” I squint harder and lean in. The smell of cinnamon and a freshly opened barrel of expensive whiskey surround me. “Did we fu—Wait! I do remember you! You were a judge at that St. Patrick’s battle!”

“A last-minute addition when the original judge called out sick.” He smiles, but it’s forced. “I, uhm, had hoped your band would win. Sorry it didn’t work out. You were good.”

“ Were ? Baby, we are good! Besides, that got us a gig that paid pretty well.” I laugh and touch his arm, feeling his muscles tense and quickly relax. “Here to judge more bands?”

“Drowning the sorrows of the day.” He takes a drink, licking his lips with a deliberate slowness.

“It’s fortuitous to meet you here, though.

You made a lifelong fan of me that night.

” I get the sense he’s hiding something.

Maybe he’s a serial killer and I’m his next victim, but I’m not getting the murder-y vibes from him. Famous last words.

“Fortuitous, eh?” I cock my head to the side. “Then why do you look so bored?”

I have this sudden urge to know more, to get inside his head, to find his broken bits and put him back together. My curse in life. I can spot broken men with deadly accuracy, but I can’t keep myself away from them once I find them. It’s why I never became a therapist.

“Troubled mind. The atmosphere helped improve my mood over the last few minutes.”

“It’s the drink, isn’t it?”

“It’s the company, too. You’re easy to talk to.”

“Yeah, I have that effect on people. Bringing out the party in everyone and everything. The Midas touch of fun.” I reach out and run a hand down the buttons of his vest. “I like your look. Not a lot of guys show up to these straight from their day jobs, and those that do, don’t have the hot professor look going for them.

In fact, if you added glasses, I don’t think I’d be able to resist you. ”

Without a word, he reaches into an inner pocket of his vest and slips on a pair of black-framed glasses, completing the nerdy professor illusion.

I can’t stop myself from imagining being sandwiched between him and Xander.

“You’re the second person in the last few weeks to tell me I look like a professor.

Although, I’m not convinced it’s a compliment. ”

He tips back his drink before sliding the empty glass across the bar, nodding to Racket for another. He turns to face me, dark hazel eyes staring into my soul. Fuck. Me. I may have been wrong about the not having sex at the club tonight thing.

“Do you believe in fate?” He asks.

“Is this about to be a bad pickup line?”

“Not intentionally. I hope I don’t come off as a creep, but it’s possible I was meant to come here tonight. To see you.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Yeah, that sounded better in my head. I meant talking to you, nothing more. It’s helping my mood.”

I’m trying to tamp down the warning bells going off, reminding me of all the true crime I listen to that say he could be a stalker or worse. Can someone be too hot to be a murderer? No, people thought Ted Bundy was hot. “Wait, how many names do you have?”

“Names?”

“Like, do you have a serial killer middle name? John Wayne Gayce? Mark David Chapman? Teddy Bobby Bundy?”

He laughs, a deep, real laugh this time. “You know way too much about serial killers. I’ve also never heard him called Teddy Bobby before. But no, I don’t have a middle name. I’m Theo.”

“Nice to meet you, Theo.” I take the hand he offers and go to shake it, but he turns my hand over and kisses my knuckles instead. He’s good, and he’s gonna murder me one way or another if I sneak him backstage. “So, what’s with the brooding?”

“Ah, you don’t want to hear all that shit.”

“Hey, maybe it will inspire a song. Who knows!”

He nods, flashing me a beautiful, but sad, smile.

“Well, I met someone and thought we hit it off. Today he called me. He sounded drunk, and he didn’t make any sense.

Sent me into a tailspin, but now I can’t reach him.

I also forgot my daughter’s birthday. More like avoided since she doesn’t talk to me anymore.

We’ve fallen too far apart.” He swirls his drink.

“Sorry to trauma dump on you. Guess I needed to get it out.”

“Yikes, that’s rough.” I take another drink, deciding how to unpack that. “I hate the drunk calls; it puts too many doubts in your head! Like, should you trust what they’re saying? Are they playing a cruel joke? Does it make them an asshole?”

“Or, the worst possibility of all, they didn’t even like you to begin with.”

“Ugh! Seriously.” I shake my head and get an idea. “You know how you get past drunken gaslighting? Dancing.”

“I’m not really?—”

“It wasn’t a request.”

He gulps down his drink and I wink at Racket before leading the mysterious man out into the buzzing hornets’ nest. This is punk music.

Most people thrash and jump around, starting a mosh pit that borders on a mindless mob.

Those people enjoy the music, but they don’t live the music.

They don’t welcome it into their body and soul, willing it to take over.

I close my eyes as the singer’s dark, raspy voice fills the room, letting myself go. Vaguely curious if Theo stands there like a confused weirdo or if he—the large hands on my hips answer that question, as he presses his fingers into my skin and follows my lead.