Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 120513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Bon Jovi’s Wanted Dead or Alive.
She was killing it. In a good way. In the best way possible.
Her voice was fucking amazing.
She now once again stood at the front edge of the platform, the keyboard abandoned. Both hands were wrapped around the microphone clipped into the stand, her eyes closed as she just let that song flow through her.
Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
That tiny body soulfully belting out that larger than life sound.
Her hips rocked slowly back and forth as she hung onto the mic. As if she let go, she would just disappear.
Disintegrate into nothing.
But she wasn’t nothing. She was something.
And Dodge didn’t like how that something made him feel. How she pulled at him just by singing fucking songs.
Magical spells.
Wicked intentions.
But he was right. Every song choice had been picked for a reason. Every song was in that fucking jukebox.
She hadn’t spent that much time in front of it last night. Did she have a photographic memory or was it crazy luck?
He couldn’t keep listening. He needed to break free of whatever web she had weaved around him.
He forced his gaze from the stage to Micah. “Yo,” he called out. As soon as he had the man’s attention, he instructed, “Soon as their set’s over, take their food order. Everything’s on the house. Whatever they want. Sure they’re starvin’.”
“Where are you going?”
“Need to…” Go roll some new cigarettes. Go down a bottle of Jack in private. Something. Anything but continue to be be-spelled by her. The nameless woman in a band named The Synners. “Don’t matter what I need to do. Just do what I tell you. Text me when their set’s over. I need to talk to them.”
Micah stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded.
He needed to get the fuck out of there until she was done.
If they accepted the Friday night gig, he was fucked. But he had no choice but to offer it to them.
Boss-y Lady said so.
If he looked deep enough, he wanted her to come back Friday night, too.
He just pretended not to see it.
It was smarter that way.
Chapter Three
As he made his way down the steps from his apartment, he slipped his cell phone into his back pocket.
Why did every fucking step feel like he was walking into doom?
Or quicksand?
Or through the fiery gates of hell?
If he was smart, he would’ve let Possum give them the offer for Friday night.
But of course, he was a dumbass. And, of course, he couldn’t resist heading down those damn steps to see her again.
Fuck. My. Life.
When he had gone upstairs earlier, he had flushed all of the hand-rolled cigarettes in his tin down the toilet, grabbed the most recent bag of tobacco he’d gotten from the Amish and rolled new ones.
Because he was a dumbass.
“Fuck!” he shouted into the empty storage room, then grimaced.
With a quick glance, he saw the fryers still on and a mess left behind on the tiny counter next to them.
Possum and Micah knew better than to not clean up once the “kitchen” was closed for the night. That might mean the band was still eating.
The first thing he noticed when he shoved open the swinging door and stepped into the bar area was that all of their customers were gone.
So was Micah.
Possum stood behind the bar wiping shit down, putting shit away. Doing the routine that needed to be done before last call. It was only about eleven, but it was dead. There were still three hours to go before closing.
Maybe they’d shut shit down early tonight. No point in keeping Possum here late when there wasn’t any business.
His eyes sliced through the empty bar and found the band sitting at one of the larger square tables by the jukebox, heads down and shoving food into their pie-holes. Like a pack of wild coyotes eating a fresh kill.
He wouldn’t be surprised if they licked their plates.
He moved around the bar and stopped on the opposite side of Possum. “Hey, go in the back and toss more chicken fingers and fries in the fryer. Also bring out more ketchup and mustard. While you’re back there, grab a few bags of munchies for them, too. Get ‘em more water. Beer. Whatever they want.”
“But—”
Dodge shot Possum a look. “Don’t argue. Just do it.”
The prospect nodded, tossed the rag he was using into the hamper kept behind the bar for dirty towels and disappeared behind the swinging door.
Dodge took a breath and headed over to where they sat.
Draft beers sat in front of the three guys and since Possum knew better than to serve anyone underage, that was a sign they were older than twenty-one.
A bottle of water and what looked like a glass of Coke sat in front of the lead singer.
Fuck.
His first suspicion might be right. She was underaged. Not jailbait age, but not quite drinking age yet, either. Last night she had said her band was all over twenty-one but she wouldn’t be the first one to get caught lying about her age.