“Who’s your favorite metal band?”
“Er, I don’t really have one. I’m not into metal. I wandered in here because I wanted a drink.”
“Cool.”
I wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. He also doesn’t leave.
“So, are you a student?” I ask, resigning myself to this conversation. It’s not like I have better things to do.
“Dropout,” he says flatly.
Um. Okay. I don’t care either way, but that’s an odd thing to say. “Where did you drop out from? BC? BU? I’m at Briar.”
“I went to St. Michael’s.”
“St. Michael’s?” I scan my brain. “I haven’t heard of that college.”
“High school,” he grunts. “It’s not a college. It’s a high school.” He thrusts both thumbs at his own chest. “High school dropout.”
Um.
How on earth does one respond to that?
Luckily, the waiter spares me from replying. He appears with another vodka cran and a bottle of Corona for the self-proclaimed dropout. I eagerly raise my drink to my lips.
My companion takes a long swig of his beer. “So what’s your name?”
“Brenna.”
“Dope.”
“Thanks. How about you?”
“No, that’s my name—Dope. My name’s Dope.”
Um.
I swallow a soul-sucking sigh. “Your name is Dope?”
“Well, no, it’s actually Ronny. Dope is my stage name.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “Used to be in a band, we performed GNR covers.”
“Oh. Cool. I think I’m going to call you Ronny, though.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a ballbuster. I like that.”
Silence falls between us again. He sidles closer, his elbow nudging mine. “You look sad,” he says.
“Do I?” That’s doubtful. The only emotion I’m experiencing at the moment is irritation.
“Yep. You look like you need a hug.”
I force a smile. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“Are you sure? I’m the hug master.” He holds out his beefy arms and arches his eyebrows, like he’s Patrick Swayze from Dirty Dancing beckoning me to jump up on him.
“I’m good,” I repeat, firmer this time.
“Can I try your drink?”
What? Who asks that? “No. But I can buy you one, if you want.”
“Nah, I never let a lady treat.”
I try to ease away and create a larger space cushion, but he steps toward me again. I don’t feel threatened by him, however. He’s a big guy, but not menacing. He isn’t trying to bully me with his physicality. I think he’s just completely oblivious to the I’m not interested vibes I’m transmitting.
“Yeah, so I know, my life story is…it’s complicated,” Ronny confesses, as if I asked for his life story.
Which I didn’t.
“I grew up on the North Shore. Father’s a deep-sea fisherman. Whore mother took off with some asshole.”
I can’t. Oh God, I just can’t.
Ronny’s not a horrible creep or anything. An over-sharer, indisputably, but he seems nice enough, and he’s simply trying to make conversation.
But I can’t. I want this night, this whole damn weekend, to be over already. It’s been absolutely horrible. Dismal. I honestly can’t see how it could get any worse.
No sooner do I think those words than the universe decides to bitch slap me by bringing Jake Connelly into my field of vision.
Jake fucking Connelly.
My neck muscles snap to attention, going taut with suspicion.
What. Is. He. Doing. Here.
“It sucks, you know? You move to Boston, thinking you’ll land a sick job, but it’s hard ’cause you don’t have that diploma.”
I’m only half-listening to Dope. I mean, Ronny. Jake holds the majority of my attention. With his faded blue jeans, dark green Under Armour shirt, and Bruins cap, he’s the only male in the venue who isn’t wearing black or a band shirt. He’s also about a foot taller than everyone else.
I grit my teeth. Why do athletes have to be so big and masculine? Jake’s body is incredibly appealing. Long legs, muscular arms, sculpted chest. I’ve never seen him without a shirt, and I find myself wondering what his chest looks like when it’s bare. Ripped, I assume. But is it hairy? Smooth like a baby’s bottom? My traitorous fingertips tingle with the urge to find out.
He hasn’t spotted me yet. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, chatting with one of the band members. The guitarist, I think.
I wonder if I could sneak out the door without him noticing. Having Connelly find me here, in this dump of a club, decked out in a glittery, skintight dress… That would be the rotten icing on the past-its-expiry-date cake that this weekend is turning out to be.
“And you know what’s harder? The whole online-dating thing,” Ronny is bemoaning.
I tear my eyes off Jake. “Yeah, online dating sucks,” I say absently, trying to locate the waiter.
“I get all these matches and girls being like, ‘Hey handsome, you’re so great and sexy,’ and then the conversations just die. I don’t get it.”
Really? He doesn’t get it? Because I have a sneaking suspicion why those conversations are dying. Elements of his game are desperately lacking. For example, the casual mentions of his “whore mother” and constantly referring to himself as a “dropout.” Sadly, Dope might not be putting his best foot forward, but I refrain from offering constructive criticism. I’m too busy trying to execute an escape plan.
My gaze darts toward the stage. Jake’s still engaged in deep conversation with the guitarist.
Crap. Where is that waiter? I need to pay for my drinks and get the hell out of here.
“You’re a cool chick, Brenna,” Ronny says awkwardly. “Easy to talk to.”
I cast another look around at the room. It’s time to go. If Jake notices me, he’d never let me live this down. The dress, the location, the company.
Yes. I spot the waiter emerging from the swinging door next to the bar. I frantically wave my arm.
“Sorry, just trying to get the bill,” I tell Ronny. “I—”
I stop talking. Because Jake isn’t across the room anymore.
Where on earth did he go?
“You’re leaving?” Ronny is crestfallen.
“Yeah, I’m getting tired, and I—”
“There you are, babe,” drawls a familiar voice. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
The next thing I know, Jake strolls up, cups the back of my neck, and lowers his mouth to mine.
9
Jake
I didn’t plan on kissing her. I was merely going over there to save her from the dude she was clearly trying to escape. But her lips are right there. Pouty and red and so damn tempting I can’t resist.
My mouth brushes over hers in a scant tease of a kiss. I think it teases me more than it teases her, though, and I regret it almost instantly because fuuuuuck, I want more. I want tongue. I want it all.
But I can’t have it. I came to rescue her, not to make out with her.
I’ve gone out with Hazel and seen her get hit on by somebody she’s not feeling, enough times to be able to recognize an SOS in a woman’s eyes. It’s a cross between dear Lord make this stop and someone please get me out of here.
Brenna’s eyes were conveying that telltale panic. I couldn’t believe it when I spotted her across the room. My first thought, however crazy, was that she followed me here, but I quickly dismissed it. That’s not Brenna Jensen’s style. Once I got over the shock of seeing her, I noticed her desperately trying to signal the waiter, and I snapped to action.
As I ease my lips off hers, my entire body rebels. My dick yells at me and my mouth demands another kiss. A real one this time. Instead, I come up behind her and wrap both my arms around her slender frame.
“Hey, Hottie,” I murmur, bending my head so I can nuzzle her neck. Holy hell, she smells good.
She stiffens for a second before relaxing. “Hey. You’re late.” She tips her head to meet my gaze. We share a moment of understanding before she turns to our third wheel. “Ronny, this is my boyfriend, Jake.”
“Oh.” Unmistakable disappointment clouds his face. “I didn’t realize… Uh, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” she says lightly.
“Yes, there is.” He sends a remorseful look in my direction. “I was chatting up your girl. Sorry, bro.”
“All good.” I run a hand down her bare arm. It’s a playful gesture, but also a possessive one. Translation: she’s mine.
His expression takes on a hint of envy. “How long’ve you been together?”
“About a year,” I lie.
“One year too many,” she grumbles.
Ronny frowns.
“Ignore her.” I trail my fingers up Brenna’s arm, and her breath hitches. Hmmm. She likes it when I touch her. I tuck that nugget of wisdom away for future use. “Trust me, she’s obsessed with me. Blows up my phone every day telling me how much she loves me. I think psychologists call that love-bombing.”
“Oh, don’t get me started on love-bombing,” Brenna says sweetly. “He writes me a beautiful haiku every night before bed. Usually about my eyes. And my lips.”