Chapter 14
I stare at the pink concoction before me with concern. I may be a little wet behind the ears, but even I know what a margarita looks like. This isn’t it.
“Sorry.”
The only sign the bartender has heard me is a slight turn of their head in my direction.
“I didn’t order this.”
A man slides into the seat beside me. “That’s from me, love.”
Oh boy.
I’m here on assignment. The club scene in Chance isn’t usually worth a piece in The Observer, but the owner has powerful friends, and those friends wanted a showpiece, so … here I am. An hour before opening and being accosted by—fuck—the hottest man I’ve ever seen.
Blue denim, black leather boots, the body of a Greek god … and just enough scruff that I want to sink my claws in and feel the scratch of it against every inch of my skin.
“I’m Lucky.”
I bet he is.
Even without the black eyeliner and sheer shirt, I’d recognize him from the press release.
I hold out my hand. “Mia Finnegan.”
His hand is soft and warm. “From the paper, right?” He nods as I do. “Figured if you’re stuck here to watch us set up, you should at least try the best they have to offer.”
The lilt in his accent spins the flirtation into smooth silk.
There’s an ease to it, a gentle persuasion, that could be dangerous in the wrong hands. His hands though are lovely. Inked and strong. I can almost feel the rough edges caressing my skin as he looks me over.
I curl my fingers around the cool glass, already damp from perspiration. “This is the best, is it?”
“Won’t know until you get a taste, will you?”
Giving in to him would be dangerous. Lucky’s rye-whiskey eyes and inviting smile would slip in as easy as a knife, all the better to rip your heart out.
I should say no.
I won’t, but I should.
I’m no slouch; I’ve done my research.
Lachlan Williams, thirty-five, born in Stretford, raised in Manchester.
Goes by Lucky. Played lead in the independent rock band Red Dragon, who saw minor success in the UK before he left to focus on writing at twenty-three.
The following year saw five of his songs hit the top 100, and he got his first platinum record with Half Measures.
I take a sip. It’s sweet—I can taste pineapple and raspberry—but there’s an undercurrent of spice beneath it. It’s every bit as good as promised, and, boy, does he look pleased about that.
“You must miss being onstage.”
He picks at the label of his beer. “Not even a little. Half the reason I quit was getting up there. Got sick before every show. Shit scared I’d mess it up or forget the words to my own damn songs. Never did, mind you, but it still freaks me out.”
“So, you’re human after all,” I tease.
Goose bumps flood my skin as he leans in. Close enough that I can practically taste the salt of his skin. “I can give you a hands-on demonstration if you’d like.”
It must be a wonder to walk around with all that self-assuredness. Most days, I don’t trust myself to wake up on time, and here Lucky is, bold as anything, trusting I won’t throw this drink in his face.
Though that would be a pretty effective way to get his shirt off …
“Tempting,” I admit, distracted by his mouth. Now that I’m looking, I can’t stop—full pink lips that constantly move, curling around his words, always ending in a smile, so expressive, so eager.
“Please tell me you know how lovely you are.” His beautiful, perfect mouth ghosts my ear, his voice cascading over me in a purr, and my pulse spikes.
It’s waking up something inside of me I didn’t even know was asleep.
“Let me take you out.”
“We’re already having a drink together.”
“Dinner then. Breakfast. I’ll cook.”
I want to say yes. It would be easy, I think—to fall into something with him, fun and comforting—so much easier than with, say, Sterling.
I’ve hesitated for too long.
“Ah,” Lucky says, reading into the pause. “There’s someone else. Shame you can’t have two boyfriends.”
I laugh. If only. “The only way I’d want that is if all three of us were boyfriends.” Wait, that didn’t sound right. I’m already tipsy. “I mean—”
“I know what you meant, love.” Lucky taps my glass with his. “And I like where your head’s at.”
“But …” And I do feel the need to clarify because there is a gorgeous man hitting on me and I’m turning him down for what?
The totally unattainable man—equally gorgeous, for sure—I can’t have?
“The other guy—he isn’t—we’re not …” I take another sip, a breath; hopefully, the alcohol will save me.
“I need to get over him. We work together, and it’s”—an ache every time I see him—“awkward. He doesn’t even know. ”
“He’s an idiot then.” He pauses, chewing over his thoughts.
I force myself to wait, see what it is that’s meaty enough that he needs to think it over first. The house lights are all the way up; his shirt is like liquid silver over the rise and fall of his muscles, and, God, it’ll be a thousand times better under a spotlight.
Seductive. Enticing. Impossible to look away.
“Big paper, The Observer. That’s the one Sterling Ross works for, yeah?”
It’s a coincidence—that’s all. Sterling is the biggest name there; it’s no surprise Lucky knows his name. No reason to think he plucked it from the secret hiding place in my heart.
“Yes,” I choke out, staring down at the blossom floating in my drink.
The answering silence says volumes, and something tells me Lucky doesn’t believe in coincidences at all.
“Some things never change,” he says, knocking his bottle against my glass in solidarity. “Welcome to the club.”
And, oh, I could laugh.
“How long?”
“Too long. We stopped talking after uni. I hated him for a long time, but I never stopped loving him. It’s why I’m here, if you can believe it, because I can’t seem to stop chasing the bastard.”
This time, I do laugh. Of all the people in Chance, how many moved here because of the same man?
“He’s always been a dark horse, huh?”
“Oh, yeah.” Lucky chuckles into his beer. “Moody. Didn’t party, didn’t drink. Didn’t seem to have any fun at all. Closed off and so bloody beautiful that it hurt. So fucking smart that he could have taught half the classes we took.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, you know …” he says, his tone light.
“Turns out, being in love with your best mate doesn’t end well.
Wasn’t even gonna tell him, but he figured it out.
He had a gig in Australia straight after graduation; he’d be gone for three months, chasing a nonprofit, and we talked about meeting up after.
Coming here. I didn’t think anything would change, you know?
” He takes a pull of his beer. “Night before he left, he kissed me, and, fuck, it was everything I’d wanted.
Next thing I know, he’s on his knees, and—” He cuts himself off.
“Anyway, it didn’t matter that he wanted me back; he still left. ”
He hides it well—pain behind playfulness—but it’s there if you look.
I’m looking.
Reaching over, I place my hand on his. “I’m sorry.”
Lucky intertwines our fingers, squeezes. “I’m not. Heartbreak gave me my first Grammy.” His smile is strained at the edges. “Besides, I’m a right hypocrite. If he walked in right now, I’d forgive him. Take him back in a heartbeat.”
Light flickers around us as the door opens, closes. One of the staff pushes through the front, hands laden with a box, cords spilling overtop.
“His loss is my gain.”
Lucky’s grin shifts my nervous system into overdrive. “Yours and mine.”
Oh, he is dangerous.
* * *
Lucky is incredible onstage. Sexy, passionate, a true performer. It’s only because I’m looking for it that I can see the tense line of his shoulders, how often he avoids looking at the crowd for too long, how quickly he gets offstage when he’s done, chest flushed and dripping sweat.
He doesn’t stop until he finds me, nursing a water by the edge of the dance floor. Heat pours off him. Our fingers touch as he takes the glass from my hand, throwing it back in big gulps. My gaze catches on his mouth, wet now, and doesn’t leave.
Lucky reaches past me to set the glass down, bringing our hips together, and doesn’t move back. “Dance with me.”
I should call it a night. I’ve got all I need for the article, not that it matters. It’s a fluff piece; I’m contractually obligated to say nice things. I could have stayed in and written it with my eyes closed, but I wouldn’t have met Lucky if I’d done that.
Fuck it.
The music is everywhere, replacing every sense with the snap of the snare, the thump of the bass. I sink into it, giving my hips over to the rhythm until I’m only an extension of the song, endless as it morphs into the next and the next and the next.
He grabs my hips, pulling me closer, dragging his body against mine in slow circles, a tease and a promise. His skin is damp through his shirt, hard and hot. I love the way his muscles move under my touch, find myself pressing and pulling, closer, closer. I want to blanket myself in him.
I don’t hesitate, shifting until his thigh slips between my legs, letting my skirt ride up as I rock against him, lifting my head to search for that devastating mouth.
Oh, this is what I’ve been missing. He kisses with his whole body, and there’ll be no getting over this—the slide and pull of his lips; his tongue, perfect and tender, so much softer than I imagined.
I’ve lost track of the music, of anything that isn’t him. The rough pads of his fingers. The perfect friction of his thigh grinding against my pussy. Each swipe of his tongue.
I can taste the bitter edge of the beer he drank earlier, salt and sweat and something deliciously him. I chase his mouth when he pulls back, not ready to stop, and get to taste his smile as he slides his hands up my back, my shoulders, where my hands are tangled in his hair.
He steps back, licking his lips. Tasting. Then he pulls me toward the restrooms.
I don’t know this club. I have never done anything like this before, but I don’t stop to think about it. I just hold tight and follow him down the corridor.
It’s dark, near black without the strobe lights, and he’s walking ahead, so I can’t see his expression, can’t see what stops us, but the restroom door opens, and the light catches on an all-too-familiar face.
Either I’m drunk off of one cocktail or that’s Sterling Ross standing there, gaze darting between us and sticking on where our hands are gripped tightly together.
Lucky recovers first. “Mac. I’m surprised to see you here,” he says. “This isn’t really your kind of place.”
“A club?”
“Outside.”
It’s hard to see in the dark, but I think Sterling is smiling. “I came to see you. I’m glad I did. Hi, Mia.”
The weight of his attention falls on me, the touch of it as strong as Lucky’s hand. “Hi, yourself.”
“You looked good out there. Both of you.”
He saw that?
The person behind me recognizes that we’re loitering, not waiting, and pushes past us to the restroom. This surely isn’t the best place to have a reunion, but neither of them seems inclined to change that. It’ll be up to me then.
“We should move somewhere quieter.” In truth, I only mean to find somewhere for them; they’re the ones with history after all.
“She’s right,” Lucky says, eyes locked with Sterling’s. “My gear’s in the office back here; no one will bother us.”
He leads us to the end of the corridor, where he unlocks the door and waves us both inside. Sterling follows him in.
I’m not sure what to do.
* * *
Make Your Choice:
follow them* (go to 87)
let them work it out alone (go to 78)
go back (go to 8)