Against the Rules (Even The Score #4)

1. willow

CHAPTER 1

WILLOW

THANK YOU TO ANYBODY LISTENING

The moment I finished my spring semester, I started whoring out my drum skills. In the music industry, everybody needs drummers. If they didn’t need drummers, they needed guitarists or bassists or back-up vocals. I would’ve mopped the floors for guaranteed stage time.

From Lubbock to Dallas, I made an arc of grimy bars, working until the final song of the night, every night. The last song was always for me .

The sports bar in Dallas was no exception. Once the set was done, I rushed to the microphone for a crowd who couldn’t have cared less.

"Hi," I blurted out. "This next song is fucking filthy ."

Interest perked up, and tonight, I had a secret weapon.

To get rid of nerves, it’s best to sing to someone. And I found the perfect specimen.

Sitting at the back of the bar, far enough that the lights didn’t blind me, was Tattoos. They covered his body, poking out from his t-shirt, drifting up his neck. He was above six-feet, with well-earned muscle, a hilarious contrast to the fold-out chair beneath him.

Tattoos was hot .

"Hey, baby." I drew out the notes, eyes on him. It was the only thing I could think of to put realism to the song, as if I was some great sex expert with a PhD in blowjobology, instead of the biggest virgin in the room. I smirked. "Want to rip off my panties? I’m not wearing any."

A lie—but it sounded good.

The crowd’s energy grew as the guitars strummed, but all my attention was focused on Tattoos, leaning forward in his seat.

The plan worked .

The crowd went crazy when I finished. Days of scattered applause and now this was a whiplash. I stumbled from the stage to the closed-off area behind a curtain.

The bandleader clapped me on the back. "We’re looking for a drummer."

"Everybody’s looking for a drummer," I laughed, grabbing my backpack.

"The offer stands. Can you play keyboard?"

Internally, I winced. "Uh…not anymore."

"Whatever instrument you can play, let me know. You’ll always have a spot with us."

The message was loud and clear. If I brought my drumsticks, I was in, but my original work would play after the encore. When a third of the audience already tapered off.

"Will do," I promised, just to be nice before heading into the crowd to find my ride.

Except Bodie was completely wasted.

Shit.

He promised he wouldn’t drink a drop and would take me to my hotel. But now? Glazed as a fresh donut. The whole reason I accepted the gig was because he owed me a favor. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered.

The buses stopped thirty minutes ago. I was stuck at the bar.

Fuck. Me.

"You did so good." He practically hacked up a lung with his cough. "What pipes!"

"Bodie, I needed the ride," I pleaded.

"I’m not drunk. But I need you for the breathalyzer?—"

I’d been so careful to map out public transportation while my car was in the shop. So careful not to use my credit cards so my mom didn’t find out.

Yet here I was trapped in a bar that smelled like cigarettes, with no one I knew beyond a drunk guy, face planted on the table. I shouldered my backpack, trying not to panic.

"You need a ride, honeybun?"

My eyes darted to the guy four feet away from me. The way he leered close…there was no way in hell I’d step in a vehicle with him. But I couldn’t piss him off. I met hundreds of creeps at the mics and they usually had a temper.

If I left the bar, what then? What if he tagged along? I’d been followed after gigs before, but that was in San Antonio— my city—where my dad could pick me up, no questions asked.

I walked backwards along the bar. "I’m good."

"You don’t have to be rude."

"I’m fine," I lied, bumping into something that stopped me in my tracks.

Or…someone.

One glance and I saw the tattoos. The man I’d metaphorically tongued the mic for. I blushed.

"She doesn’t want the ride," Tattoos said softly.

Not the voice I was expecting. Velvet was the best description for it. Heavier tone, thicker bass, yet so soft; it wrapped around me. It was a complete contrast because nothing else about him was soft. The lights weren’t just dim, his hair really was that dark and jagged scars marked his face, impossible to ignore.

He was so much more enticing up close.

His focus turned to me. "Do you need help?"

"You’re ruining our conversation," the creep snapped.

"Guys, let’s not do this," the bartender said.

"We’re not doing anything." The creep sneered, reaching out to grab hold of Tattoos’s shirt collar.

Tattoos grabbed the creep’s wrist, twisted it behind his back, and yanked him along. Everyone had to duck away while Tattoos dragged the creep towards the entrance and to the bouncer, who jogged up to meet him.

"Holy shit, " I whispered.

The bartender scoffed. "Dude, tell your boyfriend to keep the fights outside. "

"He’s not my boyfriend—" I blushed harder. "I just met him?—"

Diving back into the crowd, I hurried to the door as the bouncer shoved the creep to the ground. He looked pissed at Tattoos. Like he was going to let him have it.

Tattoos would be kicked out for sure.

Until something crossed the bouncer’s face I didn’t recognize. He shook Tattoos’s hand so hard, it would’ve lifted me off the ground. I couldn’t hear anything they said, but the bouncer eagerly spouted off something while I crept up from behind.

The bouncer dealt with the creep and Tattoos returned to me.

"Hey, sorry about that."

"Are you okay? The bouncer looked pissed."

He shrugged. "Well, he knows me, so…"

"You work here?"

"Do I—?" His eyebrows furrowed, but just as quickly, his face cleared. "No…uh, friend of a friend. Do you still need that ride?"

"I don’t know if I can accept one. You threw out a guy for me."

Chuckling, he pulled out his phone. The dark blue Marrs University sticker caught my eye.

"You go to MU?"

He nodded.

"I’m going to Marrs." I put a hand to my chest. "Eight more days and I’m there for summer classes."

"Really?"

"Yeah." I matched his grin. "Junior year."

"Senior year."

"Communications major."

His eyes lit up and I giggled.

"It’s one of the most popular majors," I pointed out. "You can’t be impressed. That’s like being shocked to find shitty beer here."

The laugh that burst out of him sent my pulse hammering. I couldn’t help the effect he had on me. The insane attraction was something to write songs about.

Disappointment briefly hit when he lowered his phone and I saw Uber. Seriously, that was it?

Mm…no. I’d take matters into my own hands.

"No offense but a taxi’s not going to work. My hotel is a twenty-minute drive and I can’t empty out the bank account of the guy who saved my night."

Offer to take me home.

His eyes trailed to my lips and I leaned a little closer.

"I’ll find another way back," I said, not meaning it.

Offer to take me home, dammit!

"If—uh—you don’t mind…" He cleared his throat. "I can take you."

Oh my god, thank you to anybody listening who knew I needed a hot make-out session and took pity on me .

"My mom told me to never accept rides from strangers." I smiled. "I’m Willow."

"I thought it was Jade?"

It was such a tiny, insignificant thing, but the fact he remembered my stage name was so sweet . He wasn’t dozing in the chair. Tattoos remembered the beginning of the show.

"Jade the Architect is a stage name." I flushed with pleasure. "It’s just Willow."

"Willow," he tested out, his voice soft. "I’m…K."

"K as in K? As in the initial?"

He nodded.

"Hm. You don’t look like a man who gets reduced to a single letter."

"What are you calling me instead?"

"Tattoos," I decided. "It fits you better."

Laughter burst out of him again, husky and so damn delicious. The funniest thing was, when he stopped laughing, he looked a little surprised at himself.

I held out my hand. "Nice to meet you, Tattoos."

His grin matched mine as he reached for my hand to shake it. "Nice to meet you, Willow."

All of a sudden, I understood every crooning and quavering song from my record collection. All the singers, losing themselves on the tracks, beating their heads for the lyrics to express exactly what that was, the shot of pure electricity that left me breathless.

For long seconds, he gazed down at me, then blinked. "Uh—I came with friends. I have to let them know I’m giving you a ride."

Translation: hot and steamy make-out session .

"I’ll be right back, okay?" he said, his voice low.

Even if Tattoos wasn’t down to be my first, there was so much we could do. Anticipation took hold of me. He was the answer to my songwriting problems.

This was the feeling I wanted to capture.