Chapter 6 #2
“No. Definitely not.” Her face falls, and I rush to explain.
“It’s our first date, Katie. Let me make sure that he’s going to be around after tonight.
And then you can meet him,” I promise, having absolutely no idea how I’ll introduce her to Mark.
Maybe I’ll hire a fake boyfriend to hide my fake relationship with Mark for a day, but if I introduce her to him…
she’s going to recognize him, and she’ll definitely have questions I can’t answer.
Or she’ll hate me. Yeah. Both of those things.
“Promise?” she asks, and I swallow hard as I nod. “Okay. Are you coming home tonight?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Text me and let me know?”
“Okay. I will,” I tell her as the condo’s intercom buzzes. Shit! It must be Mark. I’m instantly thankful that this is an older building and it doesn’t have a video stream integrated in. I rush to the intercom, pressing the button and saying, “I’ll be right down.”
“Have fun,” Katie orders. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Thanks. Love you. Text me if you need anything,” I say, tugging on a pair of heeled boots.
“I won’t, but thanks,” she replies as I pull open the door and step into the building’s hallway.
Mark is waiting for me on the ground floor, just outside the main doors.
He’s wearing black jeans and a navy-colored sweater, which contrasts nicely with his hair.
His lips twitch upward when he sees me, and his smile grows as his eyes rove over my body.
He extends his right hand to me—seeming to remember my right arm is injured—and I place my left hand into his, allowing him to tug me closer.
He smells fantastic—like leather and wood smoke with a hint of burnt marshmallows.
His lips brush against my cheek, and he murmurs, “You look lovely,” into my ear. I fight the urge to shiver as his words wash over me.
It really is a shame he’s the Black Bears’ coach. He’s easily the most attractive person I’ve been on a date with in the past year. Hell, probably longer than that. “Thank you,” I say, remembering my manners. “So do you.”
Mark nods, then inclines his head toward his car, which is parked in the loading zone. “Shall we?”
“Yes.”
“How’s your arm?” he questions as he opens the passenger door for me, having noticed I’m not wearing the compression bandage or sling. I would’ve wrapped my arm, but it didn’t exactly vibe with the sultry look I was going for.
“Still sore. Who are we going to see?”
“Austin Sharpe.” The fact that I have no idea who that is must be apparent because he quickly follows up with, “You’ll like him,” as I get into the car. “Should I be offended that you didn’t invite me up and offer to show me your place?” Mark inquires after he climbs in.
“Did you want to come up?” I ask, deflecting instead of answering the question.
“Yes.”
I sigh. I was hoping for a less direct response. Something I could’ve continued to dance around. “I have a roommate, and she’s been having a bit of a rough time lately. Inviting you up while she’s there probably isn’t the best idea.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“I didn’t figure you for the roommate type.”
I shrug. “You’re not wrong. We grew up together, though. She’s more like a sister than anything.”
“Ah.”
“Yup. What about you? Any family nearby?” I probe.
“You didn’t Google me?” he asks.
“No. Should I have? I figured you didn’t kill me the first time I got into your car, so there was no need.”
“No, it’s… that’s fine. Unusual, but fine.”
“Ah. I see,” I say softly.
“What?”
“You’re used to an uneven playing field, so to speak. Everyone always knows more about you than you know about them.” He nods when I pause. “Did you Google me?” I ask.
“No. Should I have?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll play Truth or Dare later. Dig up each other’s pasts. A secret for a secret,” I suggest, falling silent.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at the venue. It’s a mid-sized bar with a section of wall that rolls up, extending the space out onto a gravel patio, which is strung with lights.
“Want a drink?” Mark asks. His question is accompanied by the sound of gravel crunching as it shifts beneath our feet.
“Yes. A double bourbon on the rocks. Nothing from the bottom shelf, please.”
Mark nods, and I watch him walk away, admiring the view.
This place is nice. I’d come back here. There’s a volleyball court and horseshoe pits off to the right, and I briefly wonder how badly I’d do trying to throw horseshoes left-handed.
I’d probably kill someone. Maybe… I consider the possibilities for a moment.
Could be the modern equivalent of a stoning, I think.
A few minutes later, Mark returns, handing me a drink.
Hopefully, he’s more trustworthy than the players on his team.
Hopefully, this isn’t laced with Rohypnol.
I should’ve gone with him to the bar. I force the thought away, and clink my glass against his, saying, “Cheers,” as I do.
If worse comes to worst, I can kill him too.
I take a sip. “This is good. What is it?”
I take another sip as he says, “Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve.”
For a moment, I’m caught precariously between spitting my drink out and choking on it. “Come again?” I say once I manage to swallow.
Mark laughs. “I’m pretty sure you heard me.”
“How old?” I force out.
“Twenty years.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. This is a three-hundred-dollar drink!”
“More,” he tells me with a hint of a smile.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to sleep with you just because you bought me an expensive drink.”
“No. I’m expecting you to sleep with me because you want to. And I bought you an expensive drink because I wanted to.”
“Yeah, well I’m rethinking that desire,” I mutter, turning away from him and his stupid grin as applause filters through the crowd.
A tall white guy in his fifties with longish brown hair is on the stage with a guitar in his hands.
He launches into the first song without an introduction, and I’m unsure if he’s an opener or the main act since it’s such a small venue.
“He’s good,” I murmur when the first song ends.
“He is,” Mark agrees as the second song begins.
For a while, the world narrows to only the music and the stage, and I forget about Mark, the drink in my hand, and the rest of the crowd. After several more songs, the music stops long enough for the musician to introduce himself as Austin Sharpe, the main act.
Mark interlaces his fingers with mine, pulling my attention from the stage to him. “Enjoying the show?” he asks.
“Very much so,” I reply. I’m not sure if the bourbon or the music is more intoxicating, but I only seem to be capable of focusing on one thing at a time, and right now, Mark has my full attention.
I’m hyperaware of his skin touching mine and the stubble on his jaw.
In my heeled boots, I’m just a few inches shorter than he is, and when I turn to face him, we’re almost at eye level with one another. “Are you?”
“Mhmm,” he replies. His eyes are laser-focused on me, and I can see the pulse jumping in his neck.
The music starts again, but I keep my back turned to the stage, and my attention centered on Mark.
I place my hand on his sternum and wait to see what he’ll do.
He freezes, and my smile grows broader as I slide my hand up his chest and over his throat until my fingertips are grazing his carotid and I can feel his pulse thrumming beneath them.
I let them linger there for a moment before running them across his jaw.
The stubble ever so slightly prickles the pads of my fingers.
“What are you doing?” Mark finally asks, his voice a husky whisper.
“Deciding if I want to kiss you.”
“And do you?” His mouth is inches from mine, and the warmth of his breath envelops me.
“Absolutely,” I tell him, closing the distance between us.
As soon as my mouth finds his, his lips part, and I deepen the kiss as his free hand wraps around my waist, pulling me into him.
I stroke my tongue over his and taste the same bourbon I’ve been drinking.
It makes me want him more, as if I can get drunk from this kiss.
I press my hips into his, and his hand drops from my waist, skimming down my body until it’s cupping my ass.
He’s pressing into me through the thin tulle fabric of my skirt.
He’s rock hard, and he definitely wants more than this kiss in a crowded bar.
I suck his tongue into my mouth, and he moans as his fingers dig into my ass.
At this point, I know our mouths have been locked on each other long enough that we’re making a scene.
I’m just not sure I care. Or maybe I want to make a bigger one.
But if this gets any hotter, we’re going to end up with our mugshots plastered on the front page of the local news section for indecent exposure. I lean back to end the kiss, but Mark follows me until I place my hand on his chest and push him away.
He growls in frustration when our mouths finally break apart, and his eyes have a wild look to them.
“Been a while?” I ask with a smirk, which is apparently a step too far, because the next thing I know, he’s thrusting his empty glass into my hand, forcing me to take it or let it fall to the floor and shatter.
As soon as his hands are free, he pulls me back to him, one hand wrapped around my hips, the other wound into my hair, and his mouth finds mine again, more insistently.
This time, he’s fully in control of the kiss, dominating my every move.
I could shove him away if I wanted to, but that would defeat the purpose, and I don’t want to.
He kisses me until we’re both breathless, then abruptly retreats, leaving me unbalanced and stepping toward him in search of more.
“Been a while?” he says, throwing my question back at me.
“You’re a bastard, you know that?”
“Yeah, you already told me. Last week.” His own breathing is still ragged, and fuck me if I don’t want more.
“Ask me to spend the night with you,” I demand.