43. Tatum
43
TATUM
A fter a short ride on Paxton’s bike, he drops me off at my apartment, telling me he’ll be back in an hour for our date. I was so excited until after I hopped out of my shower. I blame the hot water and the quiet. Regardless, now that I’m home, the idea of going on some adventurous date after my run-in with Officer Butthead feels a little…exhausting. All I really want to do is mentally recharge and compartmentalize everything that’s happened over the last few days. As I fix my hair and touch up my makeup in the bathroom, a soft knock echoes from the front door, and I give myself one last second in front of the mirror before rushing to answer it.
On the other side is a handsome as ever Paxton in a dark gray suit, holding a dozen red roses.
“Why, hello.”
“Hey.” His genuine smile turns devilish as he scans me up and down. “You look…”
I smooth down the silky fabric. “Do you like it?”
“Fucking love it.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Here.” He offers me the roses, and I step aside, inviting him in before heading to the kitchen in search of a vase.
Glancing around the empty apartment, he asks, “Where’s Rory?”
“Taking Hades on a walk.”
“Ah, of course.”
I can feel his gaze on me as I fill a vase with some water and set the roses inside.
“They match your dress,” he murmurs.
“Seems you have good taste,” I reply.
“Seems we both do. So,” he rounds the counter, grabs my hips, and sways us back and forth in the empty kitchen. “I want you to know I had some pretty epic plans for tonight.”
“Had?” I challenge.
“I figured after the police run-in, you already had enough excitement for one day.”
My chest swells at his thoughtfulness and how well he seems to know me. My wants and needs. Hell, sometimes it feels like he knows me better than I do, and even though I should find it a little off-putting, it isn’t. Not in the slightest.
“That’s quite the assumption,” I note. Linking my fingers at the nape of his neck, I toy with the semi-short strands of sandy-blond silk. “You know, you could’ve told me there was a change of plans before I spent the last hour getting ready.”
“It was a spur of the moment decision. Besides, I had to make sure my plan B would still knock your socks off.”
“And what’s plan B?” I ask.
“You’ll see. Although, it does still require clothing—for now—so I don’t feel too bad about leaving you in the dark. Besides, this view?” His attention falls to my boobs, and he whistles. “Damn, Tatum.”
“Told you I have a good rack,” I quip.
His low laugh brings a blush to my cheeks before he plants a kiss on the tip of my nose that makes me want to melt. Then, he lets me go, causing a swell of disappointment beneath my sternum.
Seriously. When did I get so needy?
“Shall we?” he asks.
Offering his hand, he waits for me to take it, and when I do, my heart flutters even more. After our conversation on the side of the road today, I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt more connected to someone. He’s letting me in. Even when it’s scary. And it’s enough to convince me to do the same.
He brings the back of my hand to his lips, kissing me softly, then guides me toward the hallway. Once my door is locked behind us, we mosey down to The Pelican and find a booth.
It isn’t a flight to a random state or anything like he initially promised, but the comfort pick is oddly thoughtful, and I fight the urge to keep from swooning.
As he slides off his dress coat and lays it carefully on the opposite side of the booth, I ask, “Aren’t we a little overdressed for The Pelican?”
“Nothing wrong with dressing to impress, Birthday Girl.”
I check him out, realizing the man makes a good point. He’s definitely impressive in a button-up. And when he undoes the buttons around his wrists and rolls the sleeves to his elbows? My mouth waters.
Yup. He makes a very good point.
A curve forms at the edge of Paxton’s lips, proving I’ve most definitely been caught drooling over the guy as he picks up his menu, thumbing through it. “So, what’s your stance on drinking games?”
“Are you hoping to get me drunk?” I tease.
“Figured you could use a good excuse to loosen up a bit.” He shifts closer. “And this way, I can make out with you in the back of the Uber when I take you to my house for the rest of plan B.”
“The rest of plan B?” I challenge.
“Don’t order food,” he adds cryptically.
“Fine, but only because you’ve piqued my curiosity.” My mouth lifts. “So, what are the rules for your drinking game?”
“Answer a question or take a shot.”
“Simple.” I lace my fingers on the menu in front of me. “Straightforward. I like it.”
“Thought you might. I’ll get the shots. What do you want?”
“Whiskey, please,” I tell him.
Within minutes, he comes back with six shots, setting three in front of me and lining up his own on the opposite side of the table.
After sliding into his seat, he says, “You go first.”
“Okay.” Drawing a circle along the top of the closest shot glass, I ask, “What did you think of me when you first saw me?”
“I thought, please be legal, please be legal .”
I cover my snort with my hand. “Okay, your turn.”
“What did you think of me when you first saw me?” he prods.
“I thought, if Rory wasn’t here, I’d totally bang this guy in the alley .”
Throwing his head back, he laughs.
“My turn,” I announce. “How pissed were you when you thought I was engaged?”
Tongue in cheek, he stares at me from across the booth and shakes his head back and forth. “Livid.” He brings one of the shot glasses to his lips and tosses it back.
I nudge him with my foot beneath the table. “And?”
“Already took a shot.”
“Tell me!” I beg.
Licking his lips, he asks, “You really wanna know?”
I nod.
“I finally realized why some people cheat. Because with you? I was so desperate for another taste, I would’ve come running. And that scared the shit out of me.” He pauses, surprising me with his honesty. “Why’d you tell me you were engaged?”
Digging my teeth into the inside of my bottom lip, I fight the urge to deflect. To shy away from the truth. To take the shot and keep the game moving. Instead, I murmur, “I think we both know the answer to that.”
He reaches across the table but stops himself from touching my hand. “I wanna hear you say it.”
I could. It’s a question I’ve mulled over more times than I can count over the years. Why did I tell Pax I was engaged? And why did Archer’s name slip past my lips when Pax pushed me on it? Was I really so pathetic? So damn delusional? Even after all these years, it’s confusing and irrational and immature. I should’ve told him the truth. Should’ve been strong enough to express my feelings, no matter how terrifying they were. I lift the shot glass to my lips, but instead of pouring it back, I stop myself and set it back on the table. “I knew that if I didn’t stop you from chasing me, there’s no way I would’ve gotten away.”
His brows dip. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“At the time? Yes.”
“And now?”
I pick up the glass and swallow the Jack Daniels, ignoring the burn as it glides down my throat.
“Fair enough,” he murmurs.
“So, what happened with you and the band?” I ask.
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“I ran into Dodge a little while ago, and he said something…kind of strange, honestly,” I admit. “I wanted to ask you about it.”
“What’d he say?”
“Just that your job can be isolating, especially with assholes for bandmates.” I hesitate. “Pretty sure he was referring to himself.”
“At least he owns up to it,” Pax mutters dryly.
“What happened?”
“Nothing, really. That’s the fucked up part.” Pax’s frown deepens as he stares at the shot glass in front of him. “You know I was the stand-in, right?”
“You were?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “The original guitarist, Rudy, he grew up with Judge. They were best friends. Talked about starting a band and brought Dodger along after running into him at some dive bar. Rudy was running his mouth, Judge stepped in. They were outnumbered, and Dodger had their back. After that, they considered themselves brothers, and Dodger joined the band.”
“And Tuke?”
“The record label set them up.”
I nod, too curious about the turn in conversation to continue playing our little drinking game. “And you?”
“After Rudy died from a drug overdose the night before a show, I wound up stepping in and landing the gig.”
My eyes widen. I’ve never heard this story. He must’ve felt like such an outcast. That had to have been hard. I can’t even imagine. Thumbing the edge of the empty shot glass in my grasp, I muse, “They must’ve been impressed with your performance.”
“They were desperate, and I did the job.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Even now, I’m not an official member, as fucked as it sounds.” His chuckle falls flat, making me want to hug him. “I get paid to play. Got paid to play,” he clarifies. “Not to contribute creatively, and I sure as shit am not on any of the copyrights for the music or anything like that. Just show up and play the songs they want me to play.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Not at first, especially ‘cause Tuke has the same deal. But…”
“You started caring?” I assume.
He sighs. “Judge is a hard man to read, and to get close to, thanks to Rudy’s death.”
“I guess Judge and I have that in common,” I murmur.
His eyes soften. “Guess you do.”
“And so do you,” I add carefully. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten that little tidbit about your parents.”
“Gotta love when a solid origin story kicks you in the ass, am I right?”
“Mm-hmm. The real question is, how do you make it look so easy?” I ask. “You’ve had as much hardship as the rest of us, if not more. And here you are, a well-adjusted, sexy, musician with a side-hustle that gives you very lickable muscles.”
He chuckles. “Glad you find my side-hustle worthy of your appreciation, but I’m not sure well-adjusted is quite as fitting as you might think.”
“Well, would you look at that?” I quip. “You are capable of being humble.”
His laugh lightens. “I’ll drink to that.”
He picks up another glass, and I do the same. Clinking them together across the table, we each take a shot before I ask, “So, I already know your history with fighting, what got you into music?”
“Isn’t it my turn?” he challenges.
“Humor me.”
“Only if you dance with me afterward.”
I glance at the crowded dance floor and nod. “Deal.”
“All right. What got me into music,” he says, repeating my question. “Let’s see. My dad got me a guitar for Christmas when I was seven. He taught me basic chords and shit, then online tutorials took over until he left. I refused to touch it afterward until I walked in on my mom trying to trade it for some pain meds from a neighbor the same night Rafe was arrested. That’s all it took. Seeing where my life could end up if I didn’t pull my head outta my ass and the lifeline that was six feet in front of me if I could just let go of my resentment toward my dad and play again. So, I did. I stole it straight out of her hands and refused to go anywhere without it after that.”
“So in a way, if it wasn’t for Rafe, you might not’ve ever chased your dreams and become a rockstar,” I realize.
“Yeah.” He nods. “I guess you’re right.”
“I kind of love that,” I admit, bumping the toe of my shoe against his calf beneath the table in hopes of turning his frown upside down, even if I get it. The guilt he must carry for being the one to turn his life around before it was too late. But he can’t change the past any more than I can, and trust me, if anyone’s tried to figure out how to change the past, it’s me. “Talk about turning lemons into lemonade, right?” I add.
“Guess so.” He picks up the last shot and throws it back. “Now, what do you say?” Slipping out from his side of the booth, he offers me his hand. “Shall we?”
Moving to the center of the room, we dance, swaying our hips to the beat. The song is slow and sultry, and I blame the two shots of alcohol swimming through my veins as I arch my back and grind my ass against Pax, though it doesn’t feel like he’s complaining, if the bulge in his slacks is anything to go by. Yup. Talk about the perfect way to end an evening. I could dance like this all night. Lifting my arms, I wrap them around Paxton’s neck as he pulls my ass against him and dips his head, pressing his mouth to the curve of my neck. The heat of his lips makes my thighs press together. I arch my hips even more, craving him more than I should, considering the not-so-private ambiance we’re basking in. When the back of my strap catches on something, my dress loosens, and I clutch at the fabric, realizing my top is most definitely broken.
What the hell?
My body stiffens, and I try not to lose my shit as I look down, taking in the broken strap. Considering the price of this bad boy and the fact that I’m seconds away from potentially flashing someone, I’m kind of pissed. Just when the dancing was getting good, this happens? What do I do now?
Moving closer, Pax murmurs, “Hey, you good?”
“My dress.” I keep my hand on my boob, then with my opposite hand, fiddle with the strap, trying to figure out how to fix the damn thing.
When he realizes what I’m doing, Pax turns me to face him and messes with the frayed fabric for a solid two seconds until his fingers find the top button of his dress shirt, and he slowly undoes it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Here.” Sliding his shirt off, he places it on my shoulders, leaving himself in nothing but a white undershirt showcasing his strong arms.
Aaaand, am I drooling again?
Seriously. Since when are shoulders a turn-on? Since the first time I saw Paxton shirtless. But I digress.
Oblivious to my dirty thoughts, Pax pulls me close, grabs the front of his shirt I’m shrouded in, and uses it to cover me so I can slide my arms into place.
Not gonna lie. It makes my ovaries want to burst.
Once my arms are through the holes, he keeps me close, buttoning it from the top to the bottom, one by one until I’m covered. Satisfied, he rolls the sleeves to my elbows and grabs my hand, giving me a quick spin. “There. Much better. And on that note, are you hungry?”
“Yes?”
“Perfect.” His spine curves as he cuts through the distance between us and kisses my forehead. “Because dinner just arrived.”
“How do you know?”
“Roman texted.” His hand meets my lower back. “Come on.”
He was smart to hire an Uber because I’m definitely buzzed, and it isn’t only from the shots. Personally, I blame the cologne clinging to his dress shirt and smothering me in all things Pax. Or maybe it’s the slight scratch of his palm on my thigh as he opens the gate through an app on his phone with his opposite hand, refusing to stop touching me for even the briefest of seconds. Once the Uber driver parks out front, Paxton opens the door and guides me outside. Instead of leading me to the front door, he tilts his head and guides me around the side until a candlelit dinner comes into view.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“I think you really want to get laid tonight,” I tease.
He pulls one of the chairs out for me, and once I’m seated, reaches for two of the silver covers hiding tonight’s meal. Lifting them, he reveals a tray of cold lobster rolls and another of hot ones. “I didn’t know if you preferred the buttered or mayo version, so I had both flown in.”
My gaze flicks up to him, caught between wanting to hug him or kiss him or just break down and cry. “What did you say?”
“I said, I didn’t know if you preferred the buttered or mayo version, so I had both flown in.”
“Pax,” I whisper.
“I was going to fly us to Maine, so you could order for yourself, but…”
“But because you kind of had to bail me out of jail, you figured this was a solid backup?” I finish for him.
Setting the cover on the edge of the table, he squeezes the back of his neck, looking shy. “If we’re being technical, I didn’t actually bail you out ‘cause you were never arrested, but?—”
I grab the collar of his undershirt and tug him toward me, kissing the shit out of him. Thankfully, he doesn’t put up a fight and joins in immediately, swallowing my thanks without missing a beat. When I finally let him go, he stands to his full height, and I give him a watery smile.
“You, Paxton Turner, are something else.”
His gaze falls to my lips before he meets my eyes. “Only for you,” he murmurs. “Let’s eat.”