4. favourite mistake
[ 4 ]
FAVOURITE MISTAKE
LENNON
“TROUBLE” BY JJ WILDE
“ A nother,” I demand, slamming my glass down on the bartop at Astro Bar and Grill.
The bartender comes over, pouring another shot of whisky into my glass—my third one in thirty minutes.
“Thanks,” I remark dryly before swigging that one back too. It burns going down, just the way I like it.
I can’t fucking believe he pleaded not guilty. Whoever the fuck Logan Jameson is, his parents did not raise him right. How anyone in their right mind can plead not guilty after killing two people and then try to hit on their daughter is absolutely beyond me.
After I left Dylan and Paige at the courthouse, I wound up here. I figured the best way to forget the day was to drown myself in some alcohol, and maybe a hot guy, if I’m lucky.
You’d think my parents being killed by a drunk driver would deter me from wanting to drink, but if anything, it’s made me want to even more. I’m always smart about it when I do, but it really is the best way for me to forget about everything awful in my life and just enjoy myself for a little while.
It’s become a reprieve from the prison my mind has become. And right now, I’ll take every reprieve I can get.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing drinking alone on a Monday afternoon?” the bartender asks, his eyes scanning me. He’s cute, but unfortunately for me, he’s not my type.
I roll my eyes. “I know most people come here to talk to you about their problems, but that’s not what I’m here for.”
“Fine by me.” He smirks. “I’m Parker.”
“Nice to meet you, Parker,” I snark. “I’m not interested .”
He narrows his eyes slightly before relenting. At least he’s a man who knows how to take no for an answer.
“Wait,” I say as he turns to leave.
He turns back to me, a hopeful look in his eyes.
I look from him to the whisky bottle with maybe two shots left in it and add, “Just leave the bottle,” as I place a hundred-dollar bill down on the counter top.
If nothing else, at least he got a good tip out of me. He does as I ask and walks away to serve the next customer.
A whistle comes from behind me as I pour and take another shot.
I look up to find none other than the world’s most infamous rock star, Baxter James. I’d seen him in court, and though I was shocked he was there, I realized that being one of Revolution’s biggest artists, he probably also wanted to see that bastard go down for killing the people who created the label.
Baxter is your typical rock star persona—an attractive guy with a broody, I’m-better-than-everyone attitude and at least a little bit of an addiction problem.
My jaw goes slack as my eyes scan his body.
He’s hot as sin. I’d say he’s around six-foot-four to my five-foot-nine, and he’s absolutely ripped. I swear, his bicep is the size of my head, and his entire tattoo-covered hand could fit around my neck—a thought that has blood rushing to my core .
His chiselled jaw is framed perfectly by his mid-length, deep-brown hair that curls slightly at the ends around his neck and ears. It’s the kind of hair I would love to run my fingers through. It blends into a nicely manicured beard, full but not too full. He’s got navy-blue eyes and an extremely kissable mouth. He smells like a perfect blend of cigarettes and whisky and leather, a scent that shouldn’t be appealing but is absolutely intoxicating on him. And to top it all off, he has a nose and ear piercing and tattoos that peek past the collar of his leather jacket.
He checks every single one of my boxes and is exactly the kind of distraction I’m looking for.
“That was impressive,” he teases, taking the seat next to me.
“What was?” I pour myself another shot, finishing off the bottle, and swig that one back, too.
“How easily you shut him down. Think you bruised the poor guy’s ego a bit.”
“He’ll live.”
“I’m sure he will.” His eyes move over my body before looking at the now-empty bottle beside me. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I scan him up and down, brows raised. He may be exactly what I’m looking for, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy on him. I know a man like this is used to women worshipping the ground he walks on, but that’s not me. Who knows if he’s any fun if I don’t make him work for it first?
Which, if any of the stories about him are true, won’t be a problem. This man screams fun .
“Sorry, Lover Boy,” I scoff. “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me in your bed tonight.” I turn away from him as a deep chuckle escapes him.
The sound rushes straight between my legs.
He turns so his body faces mine, his legs spread apart. I try my damnedest not to give in to the pull I feel to turn toward him, but before I can even think twice, he pulls my stool closer.
“Challenge accepted.” He leans in close, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, causing goosebumps to break out across my arms. “But I promise I can make you scream my name in the bathroom in twenty minutes whether I do better or not,” he whispers.
A shiver runs up my spine, my lips parting. He says the words with such confidence and seduction that I’m almost certain I orgasm right then and there, the butterflies in my lower stomach on high alert.
I steel my expression before meeting his gaze. “I’d have to know your name first to scream it,” I tease, acting as if I don’t know who he is. I’d have to be living under a rock to not recognize Baxter James, and though I’m not the same type of famous he is—I’m a nepotism baby, after all—I’d be willing to bet he already knows who I am, too.
Especially after everything that’s happened in the past few months.
His face shifts into a stupid boyish grin that could make any girl weak in the knees. “Oh, please, as if you don’t know my name.” The cockiness in his tone is almost enough to drive me away, but the teasing look he shoots me keeps me there for a minute longer.
“And as if you don’t know mine.” I catch my bottom lip with my teeth as I smile a real smile for the first time in what feels like years.
The tension between us is palpable as he leans in close again, his face inches from mine. “I never said I didn’t know who you are, Lennon.”
My breath catches when he says my name, almost like it’s a prayer. Watching the way the L rolls off his tongue is something I definitely want to experience happening between my legs.
Not ready to move on from this intense chemistry between us quite yet, I shift slightly in my seat, waving the bartender back over. He reluctantly makes his way toward us, and though I should probably feel a bit guilty about turning him down and then flirting with another man right in front of him, I can’t find it in me to do so.
“Whisky sour for me and”—I point to Baxter—“whatever he wants.”
Baxter narrows his eyes at Parker. “Whisky, neat.” He passes him his card. “Her tab is on me.”
I chuckle to myself—he clearly missed the part of me passing the guy one hundred dollars.
Parker turns to cash us out and make our drinks.
“So, drinking on a Monday, huh?” Baxter asks.
I huff a laugh. “You’re doing the same, so you can’t judge. And after how that hearing went, can you really blame me?”
He hums, taking a sip of the drink placed in front of him. “Nope. That’s why I’m here, too. Figured a drink and a woman were the easiest way to forget about that shitshow.”
“Tell me about it.” I take a sip of mine as well. “What were you doing there anyway?”
He grinds his jaw. “Same reason as everyone else.”
I eye him, getting the sense there’s more to that statement, but he changes the subject.
“Sorry about your parents, by the way. It blows.”
“Mhm,” I mumble. “I would really rather not talk about them today.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the tension between us so thick it could be cut with a knife.
When I’ve finally had enough of the small talk, I gulp down the remainder of my drink and turn to him again. “So, you ready to make good on that promise, or what?”