Chapter 14
Fourteen
CHARLOTTE
Ican’t remember the last time I had so much fun.
I’m practically giddy as Mack and I giggle our way into a second round of karaoke, giving in to calls for an encore after our rendition of “Edge of Seventeen.” The old women in the corner insisted they needed another song because I sound “just like Stevie Nicks”—have I ever been more flattered?
No, I have not, and the old men in the other corner insisted they needed another song because Makena is “the best dancer in Louisiana.”
And she is.
My sweet friend can’t sing on key to save a life, but her moves are unparalleled. She’s so shameless in her body that it’s even rubbing off on me, a woman programmed by years of cotillion classes to keep it “tasteful” on the dance floor.
But we’re not on the dance floor.
We’re on The Brass Monkey’s little pink stage, and as the opening chords of “Stand Back” blast through the speakers, I lift a hand and sway back and forth, letting the beat into my hips as Makena goes wild.
One minute she’s writhing beside me, the next, she’s on the floor, doing a split into what looks a lot like a stripper routine as the crowd erupts in a roar of approval.
I pull in a deep breath, the microphone warm in my palm and my body shot through with lightning as I thrust a finger toward my silver-haired queens in the corner and launch into the first verse.
In a beat, they’re on their feet, dancing and singing along. The bachelorette party girls waiting in line for the mechanical bull join in next, then the bikers playing pool, and half the dance floor.
By the time the chorus hits and Makena joins in, singing backup, there are so many people wailing along, you can barely hear her tone-deaf crooning of “stand back, stand back!”
Which I think she would agree is for the best.
She’s here to shine in other ways, a fact she proves as the key change lifts us all on its wings, and she dominates the musical bridge. I “la la la la,” and she swirls and swivels, tossing her increasingly wild blond hair and making over-the-top sex eyes at the entire bar.
The old men cheer, the old ladies whoop even louder, and our friends scream like groupies at a concert.
Elly laughs so hard, she’s crying. Beatrice bounces up and down, bright-eyed and beaming, and Parker is so proud he looks like he might burst. He keeps pointing a finger at Makena as he bops from side to side, as if to say, “That’s my girl!
Look at her go! Isn’t she the fucking best? ”
Then I get to the verse about the one man who didn’t fall, the one who “asked me for my love and that was all,” and my gaze naturally finds the gorgeous man leaning against the bar a few yards away, every ounce of his attention fixed on me.
Our eyes lock, and my voice goes deeper, huskier, the lyrics taking on new meaning.
Suddenly, this song about a woman looking for a good man, a man who will give her the attention she craves without making her stand in line for the fucking pleasure, becomes so much more personal.
Nix would never make me stand in line.
He would never let me walk away.
And if I want him to take me home, all I have to do is ask.
God, I want to ask. I want it so, so much.
As the song reaches its end and the crowd cheers us off stage, it’s all I can think about. And apparently, I’m doing a pretty shitty job of hiding it.
“Go, girl,” Makena says as we reach the bottom step. “Go get you some in the family bathroom. You deserve it.”
I shake my head, laughing as I press the backs of my hands to my flushed cheeks. “Stop.”
“Ain’t no shame in being frisky in public,” she says, bumping my hip with hers. “Especially after singing like that. You should have been a pro, Char. For real. You’re incredible.”
“No way.” I shake my head. “I couldn’t handle the pressure. Or that much attention. You know I’m a private person.”
“Which is why you should go and be private,” she says, cutting a meaningful look to her right as we near our booth. “Preferably with the guy who’s clearly dying to show you how much he appreciates your talent.”
I glance back to the bar where Nix is collecting two fresh Trash Pandas.
But even as he pays, he barely looks at the bartender. His eyes are locked on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle and my heartbeat kick into overdrive.
As he crosses the crowded room, his gaze drops to my mouth.
Lingers.
Then drags slowly back up to meet my eyes.
And for once, the hunger in his expression isn’t restrained or even particularly respectful. He looks like he wants to shove me against the nearest wall and fuck me until I forget my own name.
My nipples tighten in my bra as things low in my body twist and clench.
Maybe it’s the booze. I’m two Trash Pandas deep, and that second one went down way smoother than the first. Maybe it’s the performance high, the adrenaline still pulsing in my veins, assuring me you only live once, and I’ve already played it safe for far too long.
Or maybe it’s just…him.
This man, who is slowly but surely convincing me I deserve more than the “little sympathy” Stevie Nicks asked for in that song. That I deserve a partner with the compassion and intelligence to see what I’ve been through and the integrity to ensure I’m never betrayed again.
Nix and I might not make it as a couple, but deep down, I know it wouldn’t be because of lies or games. It wouldn’t be because either of us was too cowardly to face our demons or do the work.
Nix is clearly ready to do the work.
All the work.
And suddenly I can’t think of a single reason not to let him.
The moment he sets the drinks on our table, I’m on him, wrapping my arms around his neck as I drag his lips to mine. Without a beat of hesitation, he threads his fingers into my hair, making a light fist as his tongue sweeps past my lips.
The kiss is hot, possessive, both of us staking a claim right there beside the dance floor, with our friends and his coworkers just a few feet away. But I can’t bring myself to care.
I forget that I’m a private person.
I forget that we’re fake.
I forget everything except the heat of his mouth and the solid strength of his chest against mine as his free hand slides down my spine, molding me even closer.
“Get a room, dude!” a deep voice calls, followed quickly by a female voice hissing, “Oh, stop! Leave them alone. You’re just jealous.”
Nix and I pull apart to see Torrance scowling down at Sierra at the back of our booth. “Yeah, I am,” he agrees. “Less filming and more kissing, woman.”
Sierra giggles as she shifts the angle of her phone, holding it in the air above them as she says, “How about filming and kissing?”
Torrance grins, his arms twining around her as he murmurs, “Fine with me. I don’t mind who watches as long as I get a taste of this sweet little mouth.”
As they melt into a hot, sloppy kiss, Nix leans down to whisper into my ear, “I do mind who watches. Come on.”
His hand finds mine, his grip firm enough to make my pulse stutter.
He starts toward the back of the bar, drawing me with him.
“We can’t use the family bathroom,” I insist softly, even as a part of me is arguing that there are worse things than getting railed under a stuffed squirrel in bondage gear.
And really, the fact that I popped my head in to take a peek at the family bathroom after I used the ladies’ room earlier proves I’m not as innocent or grossed out by getting it on in a public bathroom as I pretend.
“Of course, we can’t,” Nix says, casting a heated glance over his shoulder as he steers us past the mechanical bull. “Trust me.”
The words shut me up fast, because…I do.
I trust him.
Trust him more than I think I’ve realized until this second, as he turns down a narrow hallway, moving quickly past a door marked “Office: Staff Only,” into another, even darker passage.
But even as the light grows so dim I can barely see his light blue T-shirt in front of me, I don’t hesitate.
I trust that he knows what I want, what I like, and would never take me somewhere I’m not happy to be.
I’m still struggling to wrap my head around the enormity of what that implies, when he darts to our left, pulls me inside a small room, and shuts the door firmly behind us.
This space is dark, too, but my eyes have adjusted enough that I can make out the floor-to-ceiling metal shelves lining the walls, stocked with dusty bottles of moonshine, novelty glasses, cocktail napkins, and several cardboard boxes.
A single bare bulb dangles overhead, but neither of us reaches for the chain to turn it on.
I simply drive my fingers into Nix’s hair as he pushes me back against the shelf, both of us moaning in relief as we crash into each other all over again.
Our kiss is harder this time, deep and eager, Nix’s teeth catching my bottom lip as his hands grip my waist hard enough to send fresh heat rushing between my legs.
The shelf digs into my back, but I don’t care.
I’m too grateful to be alone with him.
I sigh against his lips, and he swallows the sound, his tongue sliding hot and slick against mine. I claw at his shirt, fingers digging into the soft cotton as I pull him closer, while his hands skim down over my hips, my ass, gripping fistfuls of my skirt and dragging it up around my waist.
“Yes,” I whisper, celebrating the increased freedom of movement by wrapping one leg around his waist.
He presses closer, grinding against me through his jeans and my panties. The feel of his erection through the fabric is enough to make me even wetter. “Fuck, Charlotte. You feel so good.”
“So good,” I echo, pulse spiking as he nips at my neck, the feel of his teeth on my skin making my desire spike hard and fast.
His fingers hook into the edge of my panties, a tortured sound ripping from his throat as he feels how wet I am. I echo the sound as he rubs and circles, exploring every swollen inch before he pushes inside.