Chapter 11
JACK
The Black Lantern is dead for a Monday night. Just three regulars huddled at the far end of the bar arguing loudly about the upcoming football season and me at the other end, watching Lark check her phone every thirty seconds like it might spontaneously combust in her hands.
She’s been on edge since Friday’s performance, her usual confident attitude replaced by this nervous energy that has her constantly fidgeting with everything—her phone, the bar towels, the edge of her apron.
Her black hair is pulled back in a bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face, and she’s beautiful in a way that makes it physically hard to look anywhere else.
“You’ve got to stop looking at that thing, it’s unhealthy,” I say, reaching out and tapping my finger against her phone screen to get her attention.
“Take it from someone who has entire Reddit threads dedicated to analyzing his facial expressions during post-race interviews. Trust me, you don’t want to go down that rabbit hole. ”
“I can’t stop checking,” she says. “It’s become a compulsion at this point. I keep expecting someone to have posted a video with a title like ‘Local Woman Forgets How to Sing, Traumatizes Audience.’ Or ‘Musician’s Career Dies On Stage, Witnesses Still in Therapy.’”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You really do have an incredibly creative mind, I’ll give you that. But trust me, nobody filmed it. We never posted about it on social media beforehand, per your very specific request—”
“Thank god I had the foresight to not draw attention to it until I knew if it would work out or not,” she interrupts, putting her phone down on the bar only to pick it right back up.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re very wise. The point is no one filmed it, so at some point you’ve got to stop torturing yourself with imaginary scenarios.”
“No, I’m actually a masochist,” she says. “I enjoy the pain of reliving my humiliating failures over and over in vivid detail. It’s my hobby.”
“In that case there are much more effective methods.” I grin, raising my eyebrows. “Repeatedly checking your phone for nonexistent videos seems like an amateur approach to self-torture. Since no one filmed it, you’re not even getting your money’s worth.”
“It’s actually more depressing when you put it that way,” she says, but she’s starting to smile. “I wasn’t even interesting enough to mock online. I couldn’t even fail spectacularly enough to go viral.”
“I thought you were very interesting,” I say, leaning my elbows on the bar, closing the distance between us slightly. The familiar scent of her perfume—something with vanilla and spice—mingles with the scents of the bar. “The voice crack? Fascinating artistic choice. Very avant-garde.”
“Jerk,” she laughs, swatting me on the arm.
I try to ignore the small surge of pleasure I get from making her laugh like this. Three days since the performance, and this is the first real laugh I’ve gotten out of her. It’s ridiculous how good it feels to see that smile again, to know I put it there.
“Thanks for trying to make me feel better,” she says.
“Is it working?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and taking another deliberately slow sip of my beer, watching her over the rim of the glass.
“Maybe,” she admits, finally putting her phone face-down on the bar and actually leaving it there. “At least the label didn’t see it. That’s something.”
“There’s that positive attitude I know and love,” I say with a smirk.
“Hey Midnight!” Mike calls from the pool table, his voice carrying across the mostly empty bar. “You said ‘one quick beer’ fifteen minutes ago. You playing or what?”
Lark’s eyes dance with amusement as she looks at me. “You know he’s right. You did promise him a rematch.”
“I didn’t realize you were so eager to get rid of me,” I say, leaning slightly closer over the bar, dropping my voice lower.
“Oh, I’m not,” she says with a smirk that does things to me. “But I can’t have it on my conscience that Jack Midnight doesn’t honor his sacred pool commitments. Plus you’ve successfully distracted me from my own spiral, happy?”
“Very,” I say, sliding off the barstool. “Don’t check your phone while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” she calls after me.
I head back to the pool table where Mike’s already racking the balls, a shit-eating grin on his face like he genuinely thinks he’s got a chance in hell of winning this time. I grab my cue, line up my shot, but my eyes keep drifting back to the bar. To her.
This was supposed to be simple. A straightforward deal.
A business arrangement with clear boundaries.
I help her get Instagram followers and music industry attention, she helps me look stable and responsible for my racing contract and sponsors.
No complications. Just two people helping each other out for mutual benefit.
But nothing with Lark feels simple anymore. I can’t stop thinking about her. Every time I’m near her, I want to be closer. Every time I leave, I’m counting the hours until I see her again.
Thursday evening I pull up to Lark’s apartment building on my bike.
I’ve been looking forward to this all day, way more than I should be for what’s technically a fake date.
Just another performance, though this time for my family.
I’m just shutting off the engine when Lark comes out the front door of her building.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
She’s wearing this deep burgundy skirt that hugs her hips perfectly and shows off legs that go on for miles, paired with a silky cream-colored top that dips just low enough to make my mouth go completely dry.
Her dark hair is loose in soft waves, and she looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had, walking toward me with that little half-smile that drives me absolutely crazy.
“You’re on time,” she says, sounding surprised as she approaches. “I figured I’d have at least five minutes to panic about what I’m wearing and change three more times.”
“You look…” I trail off, momentarily unable to find words that won’t get me slapped or make this weird. Amazing? Gorgeous? Fuck-me stunning? “Perfect.”
She rolls her eyes but I catch the flush spreading across her cheeks. “Thanks. I figured I should make an actual effort for the whole family dinner thing.”
Her eyes drop to my bike and she grimaces slightly. “Though I definitely didn’t plan this outfit with motorcycle riding in mind.”
“We could always take your car if you want,” I say.
“No, no, I actually like the bike,” she sighs, eyeing it. “I just didn’t think through the logistics of a skirt this short and your motorcycle. Poor planning on my part, but we’ll make it work.”
“You know,” I say, “no one at dinner will believe you’re with me when you look like that.”
“Please,” she scoffs, taking the spare helmet I offer her. “You could wear a literal trash bag and still look like…” She stops abruptly, her eyes widening.
“Like what?” I press, grinning now because I can’t help myself.
“Like someone who thinks entirely too highly of himself,” she finishes quickly, but the flush on her cheeks deepens.
I laugh, swinging my leg back over the bike and settling into the seat. “Come on, let’s head out.”
She glances down at her skirt, then back at the bike with hesitation written all over her face. Then she does a little maneuver, hiking the skirt up just enough to swing her leg over the seat while maintaining some semblance of modesty.
Her thighs press warm against mine, her arms sliding around my waist, and I have to take a deep breath before starting the engine. It’s going to be a long ride trying to focus on the road with her pressed against me like this.
“Hold on tight,” I tell her, my voice coming out rougher than intended, and I feel her arms tighten around me immediately. I feel myself stiffening in my jeans. Christ, this was a terrible idea.
The ride to Theo’s house is pure torture.
Every turn, every stop has her shifting against me, her body warm and soft pressed against my back.
Her thighs squeeze around mine on each corner I take, and all I can think about is pulling over somewhere dark and private, spreading those legs even wider, and burying my face between her thighs until she’s screaming my name.
By the time we pull up to Theo’s house, I’m counting backward from a hundred and trying to think about anything other than how wet I could make her with just my mouth.
Theo’s place sits on a gentle slope overlooking the water, a renovated craftsman with a wraparound porch that he’s proud of. The yard is absolutely immaculate—Theo’s pride and joy—with a winding stone path leading to the front door.
“This is beautiful,” Lark says as we walk up the path, and I realize this is her first time seeing Theo’s place in person.
“He’s spent the last five years getting it exactly how he wants it,” I explain. “He’s obsessive about it.”
The door swings open before we even reach the porch steps, and Theo stands there in dark jeans and a button-down shirt, dish towel thrown casually over his shoulder.
“There you are!” He pulls me into a quick, brotherly hug before turning his attention to Lark. “And Lark, so glad you could finally make it for dinner. You know, you’re the first girl Jack’s ever been serious enough about to bring home to meet the family.”
I watch the guilt flash across Lark’s face before she hides it with a bright smile. Another sharp reminder that this whole thing is fake, something I seem to be having increasing trouble remembering lately.
“Thanks for having me,” Lark says warmly, her natural charm kicking in. “Your home is absolutely gorgeous from what I can see so far.”
“Wait until you see the view from the back deck,” Theo says enthusiastically, stepping aside to let us in. “Come on in, everyone’s already here.”
“Is that Lark?” Maren’s voice calls from somewhere in the living room, and then she’s peeking around the corner. “Oh my god, you’re here!”
She rushes over immediately, pulling Lark into a tight hug.