Roxie
It’s nearly nine p.m. on a Friday night, and the bar is heaving. It’s the middle of summer, and the room is warm enough to make me break into a sweat.
This is the first time I’ve played here with the band, and it’s a great atmosphere. It wouldn’t surprise me if the manager asked us back as his customers seem to like our music.
During a five-minute break, Marc brings me over a beer, and I drink half of it in one go. “Good crowd,” he says, nodding at the room.
“Yeah.” I wipe under my bottom lip. “It’s fucking amazing. Woop!” I’m buzzing with energy and do a little dance.
He grins. “Ready to rock and roll, girl?”
“Bring it on, bro.”
We climb onto the stage and don our guitars. Marc plays rhythm and also sings. I play lead, and our drummer and bass player take their places.
As Marc says a few words into the microphone, I glance around the sea of faces. I haven’t seen anyone I recognize this evening, just the usual mix of couples, groups of friends, and buddies out for the night. Then, to my surprise, my gaze falls on Colette from work, standing by the bar. I’ve only been at Hearktech a week, but Colette’s been really friendly, and I quickly picked up that she’s the partner of one of the directors. That means Sebastian’s going to be here somewhere… Yep, there he is, bringing her a glass of wine and sliding his arm around her. Behind them are Harrison and his partner, Gabriella, intertwined, as usual. And to Gaby’s right is Elenora, and there is…
I don’t miss the way my heart skips a beat at the sight of the fourth director, Caleb Chase, leaning against the bar. Tonight, he’s not wearing a suit, but instead has chosen black jeans and a gray tee beneath a big black jacket. It doesn’t make him look any smaller. The guy’s not particularly tall, maybe six foot, but he clearly works out or plays sports or something, because he’s got legs like tree trunks and biceps I wouldn’t be able to get my hands around.
Even in street clothes, he reeks of money, from the watch on his wrist that I spotted the other day is an Omega, to his haircut, which, although carefully styled to look as if he just got out of bed, no doubt cost more than my weekly grocery bill.
He’s watching me, a curious, amused smile on his face, but I know better than to take that as interest. Guys like this don’t go for girls like me. Caleb Chase will date women who speak French or Italian, and who know Puccini from Pavarotti, or, rather, they look like they do. I know that Puccini’s a composer and Pavarotti’s an operatic tenor, but nobody would ever think I did. These women wear Manolo Blahnik and Gucci shoes, not twenty-dollar sneakers. They eat quinoa and pronounce it kinwah and not kwin-oh-a.
For a second, resentment burns in my stomach like acid. This man knows nothing about me—about my lifestyle, my past, or what I’ve had to go through. He’ll have made a judgement about me, and in seconds will have assumed I’m not his type.
I have another swig of beer, and ready my guitar as the drummer taps his drumsticks. The resentment dies away, to be replaced by a buzz of energy as I start playing. I’m not going to stand here and feel intimidated by Caleb or his friends just because I work in the mailroom. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. Fuck ’em all. I’m here to play Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb, and I when I get to the fantastic solo, I forget he’s there, forget everything, in fact, except the beauty of the music and the hum of the strings beneath my fingers.
For the next forty-five minutes, I throw myself into playing, and have a blast as the audience sings along to every song. We’ve deliberately picked a well-known setlist of covers, and when we finish and take a bow, we have two encores before we finally plead no more and step down off the stage.
I place my guitar in its case and lean it against the wall where it can’t be knocked into, then turn to go and get myself a drink. My passage is stopped, however, by a young guy, guilty of the terrible sin of wearing double denim—both jacket and jeans—who leans across me and leers in my face.
“Can I get you a drink?” he yells above the din of the crowd.
“No, thank you.” I flash him a smile and step by him.
He moves to interceded me. “Aw. You were fucking amazing up there. Come on, darlin’, have a drink with me, make my day.”
I’ve had a great evening, and I’m not in the mood to tussle with a kid who barely looks old enough to be in the bar. “Dude, get outta my way or I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat they’ll be chomping on your fucking balls.”
His face darkens. “Hey, I was being pleasant, no need for that, lady. Why are you so fucking superior? You ain’t got nothing I ain’t seen before, girl.”
The guy seals his doom by reaching out a hand and grabbing my left boob.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caleb marching toward me. Jeez, he must think I need rescuing. I ignore him, jab an elbow in the kid’s stomach, and then grab his hand and twist it behind his arm, pushing it high enough that he cries out loud.
“Fuck off,” I say mildly, and he wrenches free and stumbles away, hopefully out of the bar.
I turn to Caleb as he stops before me, my blood up, and glare at him. “You want some too?”
He holds up his hands in surrender, then lowers them, smiling. He runs his gaze down me, then back up, much the same way, I have to admit, that I did to him in the boardroom at work. When his eyes reach mine, they’re warm, interested.
“Can I buy you a beer?” he asks.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is uber-deep, Vin Diesel deep, and I swear every single hair on my body rises in response, and my nipples tighten in my bra.
Ohhh… I want this guy. I wanted him the first time I saw him, in his thousand-dollar suit, and I want him now, with his ruffled, just-fucked hairdo, and his sultry eyes. Yeah, I’m not the type of girl he’d choose for a relationship. But who wants to go steady when there’s the opportunity of a super-hot, one-night stand?
I lick my lips and stick my hands in my pockets. “Yeah, whatever.”
His mouth curves up, and he jerks his head toward the bar. I follow him through the crowd, hot, flustered, heart thumping, mind buzzing. I’ve never slept with a guy like this. But holy Jesus, if he doesn’t come home with me tonight, I think I just might explode.