Page 36 of Sucker Love (Sugar Pill Duet #1)

NOEL

At first I’m a little irritated with Luca for not warning me beforehand that we’d be going out so I could pack appropriately.

I make do with what halfway dressy things I’ve brought: dark, tight jeans paired with a cold shoulder sweater, and the black choker Luca seems to like so much.

I smear my eyelids with black shadow and add a gloss to my lips, too.

It’s not much, but when I come out of the bathroom Luca gives me an appreciative whistle and kisses me hard enough that the gloss winds up across his face and I have to reapply it.

“You’re definitely going to stand out,” he tells me, his fingers skimming my bare shoulders while I preen.

But when we do arrive at the Lock ’n Stock that evening, I see exactly what he means. It is not what I’m expecting at all.

It’s done up all rustic, like seemingly everything else around here.

Cozy log cabin style because I guess that never gets old to these people, but that’s not why I’m dismayed.

The age group skews even older than Luca and it’s a sea of plaid flannel and puffer vests.

There’s live music on a makeshift stage.

Some dad-rock cover band that sounds like absolute ass playing honky-tonk garbage and I don’t know how the fuck all these geriatrics are bobbing around to it.

It’s not the kind of shit you dance to but somehow they manage, clutching their drinks and guffawing to each other.

Everybody’s got that weathered mountaineer kind of look, half of them sunburned, crow’s feet radiating from their crinkled eyes as they all yuck it up.

It could not be a further cry from the club I met Luca in. It is fucking lame.

“You cannot be fucking serious with this,” I whisper viciously to Luca. “This sucks .”

He laughs at my mutinous expression. “I told you the vibe would be different.”

“You didn’t say it would be 80% boomers!” I sweep my hand before me. “You actually came here for your twenty-first?”

“With a bunch of friends,” he says, a little defensively. “And they had a DJ that night.”

“What’d you corny losers do, play pin the tail on the donkey?”

He steers me towards the bar. “Let’s get you drunk so you quit belly aching.”

But I am in high spirits despite my disappointment, because I’m on Luca’s arm and it’s a damn good place to be.

He’s got a possessive hand around my waist as we wind our way to the bar to get ourselves some drinks.

He orders a cosmo for me without asking and I love that, too.

I set my head against his shoulder as we wait and he’s attentive, adoring even, pressing kisses to my hair and rubbing my back.

And while some people are looking askance at us—just a few of the older folks, probably because of the way I’m dressed even though it’s not nearly as slutty as I would’ve liked—they don’t disturb us.

Things are definitely different now after last night, but I don’t exactly know how.

We’ve moved into some sort of next level in our relationship but we haven’t defined it, and I guess I’m almost afraid to.

I don’t want to ruin this because it feels so good.

I’m thinking the best thing to do is to let Luca take the lead and take care of everything like he’s been doing.

But it’s so hard not to mettle and prod and ask for more, now that I’ve got permission to.

I want to climb onto the rooftop of this so-called club and shout it to the world.

I don’t give a shit if he’s still married. That’s gonna be all over soon, anyway.

He said it was real. He told me so.

We sip our drinks and I’m probably being too affectionate, bumping my face beneath his chin and mouthing his scruffy jaw, but luckily he doesn’t seem to mind. He gives me a kiss. “Want to dance?” he asks.

“I don’t know how to dance to Bon Jovi,” I return sourly.

“This isn’t Bon Jovi,” he admonishes me, “it’s Journey.”

“They sound exactly the fucking same, Luca. Don’t Stop Believin’ and Livin’ on a Prayer are the same goddamn song.”

“They don’t. They aren’t.” But he’s grinning and I know I’m fucking right. “I’m actually surprised you can even differentiate between those songs. You didn’t even know who Placebo was, and they were relevant during your lifetime.”

“I did know of them,” I argue.

Luca gently nudges me in the direction of the dance floor, amongst all the fifty-somethings with a smattering of people who are probably at least within ten years of my own age and, fine.

We bobble around with the rest of them, nodding our heads to the beat of music that I wouldn’t normally listen to with a gun to my head, let alone at a nightclub.

Does this count as a nightclub? Is this fun for people?

Judging by the mood of the crowd, yes. I am the odd one out. Well, that’s nothing new.

Hotel California comes on and at least I can get behind this song because it’s a little slower and darker than the rest. I dance closer to Luca, hips swaying as I press up against him. His hand finds the small of my back. “Be careful,” he says in my ear.

I spin, putting my back to him. “Or what?” I purr over my shoulder.

“Or you’ll scare these nice elderly people just trying to have a good time. Do you want to be responsible for their coronaries?”

“Yes,” I say. “Let them all drop.”

Luca laughs. “You’re terrible.”

He doesn’t discourage me, of course. And I’m not that much of an asshole; I can read a damn room.

I’m not overtly bumping and grinding on him, not the way I was at Anathema.

But I’m dancing close and keeping it just a little sexy for the duration of this song, and he doesn’t dissuade me in the least. I’ve been waiting for some intimacy all day and I’m going to seize it wherever I can.

All the better to amp him up for later. The teasing is what makes it good.

I turn back to him, and he pulls me into his arms. “Hey,” he murmurs to me, as the song ends and the crowd cheers and applauds and yee-haws. “You know?—”

“Holy shit, Karvelas ?”

And there are suddenly two complete strangers elbowing their way into our space and I’m knocked aside.

One of them throws their arms around Luca, thumping him soundly on the back.

There’s a lot of guffawing and oh wow and it’s been so long from both of them, and I have no idea what the hell is going on.

The other guy, a big bearded lumberjack-looking man in—you guessed it—flannel under a puffer vest, seems to be hanging back, and when I glance at him he doesn’t seem to know I exist, either.

His eyes are silently trained on the jackass who is currently glomming onto my man.

“What the hell are you doing here?” aforementioned jackass exclaims. He must be about Luca’s age.

He’s slender and a little taller than me with short, wavy brown hair, and his eyes are a bright blue.

I catch sight of a tongue ring when he opens his mouth.

He is undeniably pretty, yet to experience the dreaded twink death I’ve been told to expect in my thirties.

He reminds me a little of Troye Sivan. I despise him instantly.

And Luca is all smiles himself, clasping forearms with him. “The same thing as you, Killian. Shredding up the mountain.”

“Wow.” Wow! Wow. So many wows. Really fucking incredible stuff, all of this, whatever the fuck it is. “I thought you gave that up after you and Demi got married.”

“I guess I’m back.”

“Right on. You look so good , Lulu. Still doing crazy stuff with your hair and everything. Remember when you dyed it hot pink senior year? Had the whole school totally gagged.” Lulu? Lulu?

“Dad almost killed me for that,” Luca laughs. “Worth it, though.”

Great, so they’ve known each other for five million years.

I’m staring at him so furiously that surely he must feel it.

The lasers in my eyes are currently burning into him, but he doesn’t give me a second glance.

Or even a first one. He’s still smiling at this dumb jerk who’s in the process of thoroughly savaging my entire night.

And the other guy is just kind of there, a dopey yet menacing presence that I inch away from.

“So is this a solo trip?” the jackass—whose name is Killian, I guess—asks. “Weekend to yourself? I know Demi was never really into this sort of thing.” Every time he says the name of Luca’s wife it’s like lemon juice squeezed into a paper cut I didn’t know I had. I grind my teeth.

“Oh, no, we’re actually—” There’s a strange look on Luca’s now-ashen face, sort of strangled.

He gulps. There’s an awkward pause—more awkward for me , because I’m still standing here like an asshole and I don’t even know who these people are, really, because Luca hasn’t even bothered to make introductions, he’s totally fucking forgot that I’m even here—and I guess he must be struggling with the whole aspect of confessing that he’s divorcing his wife, for whatever reason.

He had no trouble at all telling me the minute we met.

After a few more seconds, he speaks. “We actually separated in January,” he says at last. “Getting a divorce.”

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, Luca. I had no idea. You’ve been out of touch so long.”

“I know. It’s alright. But, you know, it was sort of a long time coming. The whole thing is mutual.”

Killian’s making sympathetic noises and reaching out to touch Luca’s shoulder again and I’m this close to tearing his arm off with my teeth.

“You know I’m here,” he’s saying. “We all are, y’know, the whole gang, even though you sort of dropped off the face of the earth.

Hell, we were just talking about you the other day.

We put Jake’s boyfriend onto you when he was looking for that stupid lust tattoo?—”

“That was Jake’s boyfriend? Dorian or whatever?”

“That’s him.” Killian grins. “We told him that was a waste of your talent.”