Chapter 11 #2
My brows shot up at the leggy redhead that was working her way around the pole in nothing but a G-string and clear heels while another girl stretched at the edge of the stage, equally topless, chatting with the bartender like her boobs weren’t on full display.
I knew this was his job.
I knew the club owned this place, and I knew Weston ran it.
But knowing it and standing in the middle of it while my... whatever-he-was-now casually strolled through a room with half-naked women were two very different animals.
Weston caught the look on my face and frowned. “It’s just a job, baby. For them and for me.”
“I know,” I said quickly.
“Hattie.”
“I know,” I repeated louder. “It’s just... new.”
“Hey, Bash!” the redhead called from the stage, not even breaking her routine. “Is that—oh my GOD.” She stopped dead, grabbing the pole for balance, her eyes going saucer-wide. “That’s Hattie Lynn Jackson. BASH. That is Hattie Lynn Jackson.”
“Yep,” Weston said, steering me toward the back hallway.
“I saw you in Atlanta two years ago!” she hollered after us. “Third row! I cried during ‘What Changed’!”
“Thank you!” I called back over my shoulder, laughing despite myself.
Okay. Maybe this wouldn’t be so weird after all.
Weston’s office was at the end of the hall, and it was not what I expected. It was clean and organized, with a big desk, a safe in the corner, and an entire wall made of glass that looked out over the main floor.
I walked up to it, frowning. “They can see us?”
“Two-way mirror,” he said, dropping into his desk chair and waking up the computer. “I can see the whole floor. They see their own reflection. Helps me keep an eye on things.”
I stood at that mirror while he worked, watching the dancers. The redhead was back at it, flipping upside down on the pole in a move that would’ve put me in traction, and I found myself weirdly impressed. That took some serious athleticism.
But that wasn’t really what my mind was chewing on.
My mind was chewing on us.
Last night in the barn happened. The shower had definitely happened—twice, if we were counting, and my sore thighs said we were definitely counting.
He’d said he loved me, and I’d said it back.
But what did that actually mean in the light of day, when his life was here, and I had a tour that resumed in nine days?
I lived in Texas, and my label was in Nashville.
I had a career that employed over two hundred people. I had contracts and obligations, and one more stop on my Rebel Hearts tour.
He had the Kings.
“Songbird.”
I jumped.
He was leaning back in his chair, watching me, the payroll apparently forgotten.
“What?” I said, way too fast.
“You’ve been staring out that window for ten minutes, and you’ve got that little crease between your eyebrows.” He pushed back from the desk and patted his thigh. “C’mere.”
“I’m fine.”
“Didn’t ask if you were fine. I asked you to come here.”
Bossy. So freakin’ bossy.
I went anyway.
He caught my hand and pulled me down into his lap, wrapping his arms around me and tucking me against his chest.
“Spit it out, Songbird.”
I picked at an invisible thread on his shirt. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing that puts that look on your face is stupid.”
I blew out a breath. “What does this mean?” I whispered. “Between us. Now.”
He went still under me.
“We slept together,” I rushed on, the words tumbling out now that the dam had cracked. “And we said things, and I meant them, I meant every word, but I have a tour that starts back up in nine days and you—”
“Hattie.” His hand came up and cupped my face, tilting it until I had no choice but to look at him. His eyes were steady. “You’re mine.”
I bit my lip.
“You’ve been mine since the day you walked into the clubhouse holding your granny’s hand,” he said, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone.
“Skinny little thing with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen.
I took one look at you, and that was it for me.
Ten years old and done for. I just didn’t know what to call it yet. ”
Tears burned behind my eyes. “Weston—”
“I’m not finished.” His voice was rough.
“I fucked up before. I made a choice that wasn’t mine to make, and it cost us eight years.
But I’m not a dumb kid anymore, baby. Your career, the club, the miles—we’ll figure it out.
I’ll ride to every city on that tour if that’s what it takes.
I’ll get on a fucking plane, and you know how much I hate flying.
Hell, I’ll learn to play the goddamn tambourine if I have to, but this,” he motioned between us.
“This is forever. You’re not getting rid of me, and I’m not letting you go.
Not ever again. That’s what this means.”
I don’t know what my face did, but it must have been something, because his whole expression softened.
“That what you wanted to hear?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered, and then I kissed him, because words were hard and there wasn’t one big enough for what was ballooning inside my chest.
He kissed me back slow and deep, one hand fisting in my hair, and I felt that kiss all the way down to the soles of my feet.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard, and his eyes had gone dark in a way that promised very unproductive things for his payroll.
“Oh, no,” I giggled, catching the time on his computer screen.
12:47.
I scrambled off his lap. “I gotta go. I’m meeting Rodney at one.”
The muscle in his jaw was ticking as he wrestled the caveman back into his cage. “Want me to drive you?”
“It’s three blocks, honey. I’ll walk. The fresh air will do me good, and if you come, you’ll sit in a booth across the diner glaring at my drummer until he cries.”
His lips twitched. “That doesn’t sound that bad.”
I rolled my eyes. “Weston.”
He sighed and stood, pulling me against him. “Phone on. One hour. You feel even a little bit off, about anything, you call me, and I’m there in two minutes.”
“One hour,” I promised, going up on my toes to kiss him one more time. “Then I’m all yours.”
“You’re all mine now,” he growled against my lips.
I laughed and slipped out of his arms, heading for the door. I could feel his eyes burning a hole in my back the entire walk down that hallway and past the stage.
He’d be okay.
It was just an hour.