Chapter 3
The bass hits harder tonight, pulsing through the Blue Note’s thick wooden floors as I push through the door, voices louder and bodies pressing closer in the narrow space between the bar and the wall.
Saturday packs the Blue Note tight.
I smooth my palm down the cream-ribbed sweater tucked into my trousers. No midriff tonight, no fragile chains. Just dark hair held back by the same sparkly clip and a demure silver teardrop on my nape guard.
Approachable. Uncomplicated.
Dim lighting bleeds through the room tonight, turning the dense crowd into an anonymous sea of silhouettes.
I head for the bar without scanning the room. The restraint costs me more than it should because I already know Orien stands in the northwest corner, his back to the wall, with sightlines covering both the door and the stage.
I lean my elbow on the counter, angling my body so my back is to the corner where he stands. My foot taps once on the metal footrest.
“Whiskey sour,” I tell the bartender when he stops in front of me. “Thanks.”
“Be right up.”
As he turns away, my attention shifts to the corner table where the guitarist from Thursday’s band sits alone, nursing a beer and watching the crowd with the comfortable detachment of someone used to being looked at but not approached.
Perfect.
My drink arrives, and I take a slow sip before stepping away from the bar, making my way through the packed room.
I slide into the seat across from him without asking, setting my glass down on the scarred wooden surface. “That opening riff was really something.”
His eyebrows rise. “You were here on Thursday?”
“I was.” I let genuine admiration shine through. “I’ve never heard ‘Slow River’ played like that before.”
He straightens, shoulders dropping as he leans forward. “Trying something new. It doesn’t always work.”
“It did this time.” I stick out my hand. “My name is Lee Esposito. I moved to Ashford Heights last month for work.”
He hesitates for only a heartbeat before shaking my hand. “Kain.”
I give him a playful smile. “Just Kain?”
A hint of mischief touches his mouth as he releases my hand. “That’s how musicians do things, didn’t you know?”
I chuckle in appreciation and take a sip from my glass, letting the whiskey burn across my tongue before I swallow. “I’m sad it took me so long to find this place. I love the local music scene. Are you playing again soon?”
The conversation builds from there. He names a half-dozen clubs, then pauses. “You should check out The Raven on Tuesday. Quieter vibe, but the acoustics are insane.”
“Noted.” I lean forward, letting my laugh join his when he describes the bass player’s over-the-top solo. I ease into the role, the laughter and tilted head as practiced as a knife drill.
As I do, I feel Orien’s attention on us, but I refuse to acknowledge him. The band on stage shifts into a slower song, the slide of a bottleneck guitar filling the space with mournful notes.
My foot taps under the table, keeping time with the beat. I laugh at Kain’s story about their drummer getting locked out of the van mid-tour, my fingers wrapped around my glass.
The bass of the song vibrates through the floor and up through my shoes, settling somewhere below my breastbone.
My skin prickles with awareness as the energy in the space around us shifts. Without turning, I sense Orien crossing the floor, his pace as unhurried and deliberate as the night we first met.
A moment later, he slides into the empty seat beside Kain, interrupting our conversation as he fixes on me. “I thought I told you to come back on Thursday, trouble.”
I meet his eyes across the table, pale gray holding mine as I set my glass down. “You informed me, without my asking, that you would be here on Thursdays. But why would I come back to see a man who didn’t even tell me his name?”
Orien’s mouth curves. “And yet, here you are.”
“Here I am,” I agree, my throat dry.
Kain tracks the tension between us, confusion giving way to understanding, then amusement.
He claps me on the shoulder as he rises from the table. “I’m gonna grab another beer.”
Silence stretches between us as he leaves, neither speaking as we evaluate each other.
The band shifts into another song, and the surrounding conversations rise to meet it. Bodies sway toward the dance floor, a moving curtain of noise and shadow.
When I swallow, the light catches the teardrop at my throat, a single flash of silver in the dark.
Orien’s attention drops to the nape guard at my throat before lifting again, giving nothing away. “Why were you talking to Kain?”
“He’s interesting,” I say, to see how Orien will react.
His eyes chill. “He’s not for you, trouble.”
My lips part on a quick intake of breath. “Are you for me?”
“You know I am,” he says without hesitation. “Don’t pretend otherwise. Coyness doesn’t suit you.”
Heat curls in my hips at the words, a physical response I can’t afford. I take another sip of my whiskey, letting the burn ground me.
“So what now?” I ask when the silence stretches between us again. “Is this where we get to know each other? Let’s start with your name.”
Orien doesn’t answer. Instead, he stands and pulls his chair around the small table to settle beside me rather than across.
He moves without haste, a deliberate shift that brings his chair around the small table, and when he sits again, his thigh rests so close to mine the heat of his body radiates through my trousers.
“Now,” he says, his voice pitched loud enough for me to hear over the music, “we can have a real conversation.”
My heart does a double-tap against my ribs, and I take another sip of my drink to give my pulse time to slow before I turn to him. “Is that what this is? A real conversation?”
He rests his arm along the back of my chair, not touching but framing my body, forming a physical barrier that separates us from everyone else in the lounge. “How did you find the Blue Note?”
The question seems casual, but the way his eyes don’t move from mine tells me this is more than idle curiosity.
I run my finger around the rim of my glass, buying time. “A friend mentioned it. Said it had the best music in town.”
“Which friend?”
I purse my lips. “So that’s how we’re doing this? Twenty questions?”
He doesn’t take the bait. “Most people who come here are regulars. You’re not.”
“I’m new in town,” I say, which is true if you count my move into the apartment in Ashford Heights. “Still learning where the good spots are.”
“How often do you come to Ashford Heights?” he asks, leaving enough space between questions to avoid turning the conversation into an interview.
“I don’t,” I reply, offering the truth from a different angle. “I live here now.”
The band shifts to a more upbeat song, the drums setting a steady rhythm that syncs with the pulse in my throat. People at the table next to ours laugh at a joke, voices rising to be heard over the music.
“What do you do with your free time?” Orien leans forward, his pheromones spiking in the air between us. The move brings his face inches from mine, the warmth of his breath caressing my cheek. “Besides go out searching for trouble?”
My breath catches. “I’m a graphic designer. Freelance.”
“What kind of work?” he asks.
“Logos, for the most part. Brand identity packages.” The words come easily. I’ve rehearsed them too many times for them not to.
He appears satisfied for now. “So, you work alone?”
“Most of the time.” I counter with my own question. “What about you? How long have you been coming here?”
“Long enough.” His hand rests on the table, so close that the thin white scar is visible across his knuckles. “The owner’s a friend.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “That must be nice, having friends in high places.”
“I have friends in all sorts of places.” His eyes drop to my glass, then return to me. “Some higher than others.”
Around us, the crowd has shifted again, the high-tops emptying as more people move toward the small dance floor. The staff navigates the changing space with practiced ease, clearing empty glasses and wiping down tables.
“What about you?” Orien asks, pulling my attention back to him. “Where are your friends?”
“My parents moved a lot when I was growing up,” I say. “Hard to build friendships when you can’t put down roots.”
He doesn’t comment on the deflection, but I catch the slight flare of his nostrils. He rests his arm along the back of my chair, his fingers now only inches away. One lean backward and I’d feel his touch.
“Must have been lonely.”
The observation catches me off-guard.
Because in a family full of Alphas, even with my brother’s unwavering love, yes, it had been lonely.
“I managed.” I push forward with my own line of questioning. “What about you? Have you always lived in Ashford Heights?”
He takes another sip of my drink before answering. “Not always.”
Is his deflection a sign he’s aware of what I’m doing? Worry prickles under my skin, and I take back my drink, needing the burn of whiskey to bring me to my senses.
When I set the glass down, Orien shifts, his knee brushing mine beneath the table, and a spark of recognition sizzles through me.
“The band’s good,” I say, grasping for neutral territory. “They play here often?”
“When they’re not touring,” he answers. “The owner gives them a good rate.”
“That’s nice of him,” I say, resisting the desire to move my leg away. I’m supposed to be seducing this man; sending mixed signals isn’t an option.
“He’s not nice.” The response comes without hesitation. “He’s practical. Good bands draw a crowd.”
I laugh, and the sound feels more genuine than it should. “Practical, then.”
Orien’s mouth curves, warmth in his pale eyes. “That’s one of his better qualities.”
As I reach for my drink, again, Orien’s fingers brush my wrist, the contact lingering a half-second past coincidence.
He doesn’t acknowledge it, which is worse than if he had, because now I’m cataloguing the exact warmth of it, the pressure, storing it away as evidence.
“Favorite music?” he asks over the noise.
“Anything with a good bass line,” I say, a technical truth.