Page 38 of Not So Goode

This last all in one rushed breath, because Myles had sauntered up at that moment, grinning like a fool, sweat running in rivulets down his lean, ripped torso, a white towel around his neck, a bottle of water in one hand and a bottle of Jameson in the other.

He wore black leather pants like he’d been born in them, shit-kicker square toed boots, and a worn, curved-brim gray Coors hat that looked like it had been chewed on by a dog, set on fire, and then attacked by an angry cat.

He was a rock star god, is what he was.

Lexie was staring up at him, open-mouthed, now that she’d barfed up her hero-worship ode.

“Just once?” He dropped to his knees, wedged his waist between her thighs, set his bottles on the floor, wrapped one hand around the back of her head, and kissed her absolutely stupid.

As in, when he pulled back, she blinked like a scared fish, and then sucked in a frantic breath.

He took a swig of whiskey but didn’t swallow it, held it in his mouth, grinning. Yanked her against his mouth, and she whimpered in surprise, and then the two of them did something ridiculous and complicated with the mouthful of shared alcohol.

Again, he pulled away, but only an inch or two. “Jesus, woman. With a mouth like that, you can kiss me till the cows come home.”

“Moo?” Lexie breathed, inanely.

Myles laughed, and then grunted in surprise when Lexie smashed her mouth against his and took her turn kissing him like she owned him.

“Okay then,” I said, and carefully levered myself to my feet. “Time to go.”

They ignored me, kissing like long-separated lovers.

I stumbled out of the trailer and in search of Crow.

I found him backstage, leaning over a crate, clicking guitar case latches. He saw me, and smiled. “Hey there, beautiful.”

Like he’d known me forever. It made my gut do something flippy-floppy, and my heart do pitter-patter nonsense.

“Hi,” I mumbled. “Am I in the way?”

He glanced around in a broad gesture—the area was empty but for part of the drum kit, a few monitors, and piles of cords. “Nah, babe. Park that sweet ass on the crate there and tell me a story.”

Sweet ass.

What?

I swallowed, not sure how to process the way he spoke; no one had ever spoken to me the way he did, and I wasn’t sure if I loved it or hated it or some baffling combination of both. Moving carefully, balancing precisely, I hopped up on a chrome-and-black sound equipment crate, kicking my feet like a child.

“Tell you a story?”

He winked at me. “Yeah. Talk to me.”

He had another guitar in hand, looking it over carefully, examining each string, the bridge, the neck, the frets, the tuning pegs, the headstock, the backside, and the little bar thingy on the front. He wiped it down with the cloth from his back pocket, settled it in the case, snapped it closed, and fit the case in the crate with the others.

“Um. I’m absolutely mortified at my behavior.”

He didn’t look up at me from his work, but snorted nonetheless. “Don’t be. We’ve all been there.”

“You have?”

He nodded. “Yup.”

“Most embarrassing drunk moment, then,” I said.

He propped the red-and-gold electric guitar on his knee, foot braced on the crate, and twiddled the strings as if playing a solo, though without amplification the strings produced nearly no sound. “Hmmm. Okay, so. I’m twenty. Eight years ago, that’d be. At a bar in…Yuma, I think it was. Me, Mo, Panther, Zoom, Crutchy, and Clint were all bellied up to the bar.”

I shook my head. “Wait, who?”