chapter 4 #2
Mirage tips her head. “WITCHZ. ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’ ”
For a minute, I listen to it, tapping my fingers on my knee, following along with the rhythm. “Dark shit,” I say, then meet her eyes. “It’s really fucking good.”
Her lips tug up at the corners again. “I like it too.”
Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What else do you like?”
The smile fades slowly.
Did I really fuck this up that quickly?
Fuck.
Now she narrows her eyes at me, the gemstones at each corner winking in the dim red light. “Is that really why you’re here? To talk to me?”
I could lie or make a shitty joke. But I don’t want to. I’ve never really liked lying. So I just shrug and say, “Yeah. I guess.”
She keeps staring. She stares for long enough that I clear my throat and glance away.
“I mean,” I say, reaching up to scratch the back of my neck, “I get it if you’re not into this. I could go—”
“Sushi.”
My gaze flicks to hers. She’s not giving me such a suspicious look anymore. “Sushi?”
She nods. “Yeah. With edamame and miso soup and warm sake.”
Something in my chest warms at the image of her sipping sake and eating edamame. “Me too.”
She runs a hand through her hair, making the glossy black strands shine. “Now tell me something that you like.”
Something I like, something I like . . .
“Uh . . . Skittles.”
Now, finally, she gives me a full smile.
And I’m starting to loosen up, just a bit. “Your turn,” I continue, turning toward her and draping my arm across the back of the couch. “Something that’s not a food.”
“Not a food?” She twists her mouth into a thoughtful expression that makes me want to press my thumb to her lips, just to see if they’re as soft as they look. “Skateboarding.”
I blink. “Really?”
She arches a brow at me. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“No, I’m not.” I give a shake of my head. “It’s just, the guys and I board all the time. I’m kind of shit at it, but it’s fun.”
“I got this boarding when I was first learning.” She runs her fingertips across her hairline, stopping at a scar I didn’t notice when she was dancing for me last night. “My parents made me promise never to ride without a helmet again.”
I’ve got the urge to reach out and touch it, to trail a finger across that scar, but I don’t. “They sound like good parents.”
“They are.” She gets that smile again, then shakes her head and laughs. “And this is the first time I’ve ever talked about my parents while at work, so let’s talk about literally anything else.”
She has such a pretty smile. Her teeth are slightly uneven, like maybe she didn’t wear her retainer the way she was supposed to. Or maybe that was just me. Mom used to hound me about it relentlessly.
I’m not sure why, but before I can stop myself, I say, “My dad hates that I play music.”
Her smile dims, and a small wrinkle forms between her brows. “What?”
I realize that I never told her I play in a band. I’m pretty sure that was the last thing on my mind last night when she was dancing for me. Rubbing my calloused palms on my jeans, I say, “Yeah, I’m the drummer for LGC. Loaded God Complex. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of—”
“I’ve heard of you,” she says. “Why does your dad hate your music?”
“Oh, uh . . . Because he wanted me to do something else, I guess.”
“What did he want you to do?”
Overhead, the song changes. It’s another one I don’t recognize.
“Play college ball. Try to go pro.” I shrug. “I just wanted to play music though.” I give her a smile. “All these years later, he’s still waiting for me to grow out of it. Thinks it’s just a phase.”
Mirage narrows her blue eyes. “And is it?”
Easiest question she could’ve asked me. I shake my head. “No way. It’s my life.”
The wrinkle between her brows smooths out, and her smile returns, though it’s smaller this time. “So, what do you do when you aren’t disappointing Daddy?”
The laugh that bursts out of me is a bit surprising, but it feels good. “Skateboard. Play video games. Eat cereal straight out of the box.”
“Favorite cereal?” she asks.
“Peanut butter Cap’n Crunch. Yours?”
“Honey Bunches of Oats. And now we’re talking about food again.”
I smile. “You started it.”
Mirage’s lips twist into a sideways smirk, and she scoots a bit closer to me on the couch, one of her hands finding my thigh. Her touch makes my stomach tight, but I try to force the reaction down. I don’t need to pop another boner on her like I did last night.
The bass coming through the speakers is deep and slow, and it seems to wrap around Mirage as she rises onto her knees and eases herself into my lap.
And I just told myself not to get hard.
Fuck.
This close to me, even in the dim lighting, I can see different bands of blue in her eyes, light and dark, with a bit of gray. She rests her weight in my lap and says softly, “I don’t think you belong in here.”
My hands ache to touch her, but I keep them draped along the back of the velvet couch. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she says as she starts to sway, giving me a slow lap dance, “you’re a rock star. You must have women taking their clothes off for you all the time.”
This makes me laugh, and my sudden movement jostles her. I quickly reach out to grab her waist, steadying her. “You must be thinking of Dex. Half the time, no one even realizes I’m there.”
Mirage leans in, and her breath tickles the shell of my ear as she whispers, “I would.”
I’d like to believe that. But tonight, I’m not drunk, and I know what this is.
For me, it’s a fantasy.
For her, it’s just a shift at work.
My hands are still on her waist. She’s reaching for the straps on her bodysuit now, but before she can get them off, I say, “I’m leaving tomorrow. Going home.”
She pauses, her hips going still.
“I was supposed to leave today, but . . .” I glance away from her.
There’s no way I’m telling Mirage that I skipped my flight and gave our agent a massive headache just so I could try to see her one more time.
That would definitely come across as pathetic and desperate.
And maybe I am both of those things—but she doesn’t need to know it.
“Where’s home?”
“LA.”
She makes a small sound, like a mix between a sigh and a hum. “I’ve never been.”
Immediately, an invitation jumps to the tip of my tongue. I’d put her on a plane with me. I’d take her anywhere she wants to go.
But that’s just the fantasy again. And I’m fighting right now to keep my head out of the clouds.
The song shifts again. I’m not sure how long we’ve been in here, but I know it’s getting late. Or early? I’m gonna have to sleep for a day when I get back home.
“There are . . . palm trees,” I finally say.
Fucking idiot.
Mirage smiles. A real smile this time, showing her imperfect front teeth.
She stares at me for a long moment, and I’m not sure what she’s looking for.
Then she slips out of my lap, and with my hands no longer on her body, they feel emptier somehow.
I wish I had my drumsticks with me. At least that would give me something to hold on to.
Mirage walks to the panel on the wall, where there’s a little shelf. She grabs something, then returns to me. She holds out a hand.
Oh, right.
I grab my wallet from my back pocket, but as I go to pull out my money, she laughs.
“Give me your hand, rock star.”
I pause. Then, slowly, I offer my hand.
She takes it, holding it in hers, which is incredibly small, just like her. Then I notice she has a pen in her other hand.
I go very still as she scribbles something onto my palm, like any sudden movement will make her vanish in a cloud of glitter.
When she’s done, I pull my hand back and look at my skin.
Ten digits stare back at me.
“You . . . You’re giving me your number?”
Mirage puts one hand on her hip, and looking up at her right now, I get the feeling she could intimidate any man into being small for her. “Don’t make me regret this,” she says, one black eyebrow arching in the corner. “If that ends up on the internet, I swear I’ll—”
“It won’t.” I curl my hand protectively, as if the ink might blow away in the desert wind. “I promise.”
“Good.” Then she holds out her hand. “Now you can pay me.”