“If opposites attract, then I am nothing. Because you, you are everything.”
There’s no easy road traveled to such an intense sentiment, one I never dreamt I’d feel….
But I also never planned on Cannon Blackwell climbing aboard my tour bus.
“I can’t let a stranger on the bus with Bubs. What if he’s a mass murderer?” What if he’s not as pretty on the inside as he is on the outside?
“Ah, Mama Bear, run him through all the tests. You’re careful. And he might say we’re crazy and tell us to fuck off. Let’s ask before we worry about it.”
Biding my time, I chew on the inside of my cheek and look back, confirming Conner’s still tossing the Frisbee happily, Rhett watching him. “You asking or am I?” I sigh, hopefully masking the foreign tingle of anticipation working its way up my battered spine.
“He’s hetero, I can tell from here. I say we send in,” he flicks a finger back and forth between my boobs, “the big guns.”
“Don’t lick your lips!” I shove him, mouth agape. “You’re like my brother. That’s illegal in at least forty states, and gross.”
“You didn’t think it was gross when—”
“Enough.” I slap my hand over his mouth hastily. “I’ll go, but you stay right here and watch, closely. He makes a move for a weapon, dial 911 as you run to rescue me.”
“On it.” He grins at me, full of victory, a hint of his earlier teasing still lingering in his expression.
Girding my loins, I think, do women have loins and can they be girded or is that only a guy thing? Summoning my courage, I move with slow, hesitant steps in the miraculous unknown’s direction, reminding myself with each one that it’s for the boys, the band, the overall goal of staying the hell out of Sutton. And it is, but I’m kidding myself if I don’t admit I wouldn’t be this anxious if I was walking up to an ugly man. Or even a kinda good-looking man. Shallow much, Liz? Nah, I have no control over biological response.
Almost there now, his head lifts and turns at my approach, connecting eyes as sable brown as thick molasses to my own. He was tummy-turning enough far away. Up close, he’s better than photoshopped, a clear-cut case for Guinness Genetics. His lips are full, much plumper than my own, and he has a strong nose and jawline, both very masculine, the latter covered in a dark scruff. His hair is the same rich chestnut as his eyes, not too short, but definitely not too long. “Just fucked” hair (isn’t that what they call it?) be damned. He’s got “just fucked her and she had to hold on” locks, unruly in the most intricate fashion. The black boots at the end of long, thick legs are scuffed, faded jeans worn, well, and the long sleeved black thermal he’s wearing? Oh, he wears it, or rather, every muscle in his torso holds it up flawlessly.
Bottom line—he’s easy to look at.
“Are you a deranged serial killer and/or rapist?”
I like to open subtly.
“No, are you?” His timbre is deep and gravely, sending my vagina subliminal messages. Something along the lines of “yup, you want it.” With a voice like that, I’m praying he isn’t a chain smoker. To fuzz this perfect picture with the stench of an ever-present cloud of smoke would be one helluva slap in the face of the Almighty creator.
“No,” I answer too defensively, this instant, highly unusual attraction frying my staple “too cool to care” attitude that, up until right now, I’d like to think I pull off fabulously. “You any good?” I lean and point to the instrument on his back, brows bowed in questioning antagonism.
“Define good,” he deadpans, head down as he pulls the guitar off his back and puts it back in its case.
“Not left-handed.” He shrugs as he straightens back up and captures my gaze.
He laughs, treating me to one seriously enlightening sound, accompanied by the sexiest blindingly white smile. “Then no, not even close to good.”
Damn, I should’ve gone with a mediocre guitarist! Now I’ve backed myself into a corner, Stranger Danger not giving me anything in the form of segue. Struggling, I shove my hands in my back pockets and rock nervously back and forth on my heels, forced to come up with another revealing yet seemingly aloof question.
“Why do you ask?” he rescues me.
“Our band.” I toss my head back toward the bus. “We need a bassist. And since you’re hitchhiking, I thought maybe—”
He drops down from his perch on the top edge of the bench and stands, well over six feet of sinister sex appeal stretching out before my eager eyes. “Do you know what a hitchhiker is?”
“What?” I shake my head to clear it and take a step back. “Yes, of course.”
“You sure about that?” He eats up the steps I’d retreated, placing his body close enough to mine that I can literally feel the battle of push and pull between us. “‘Cause where I come from, hitchhikers stand at the road, where you can see them. It increases their chances of actually landing a ride.” His left eyebrow curves up at one end and that same eye, I swear it, twinkles at me. “Seeing as how I’m sitting at the back of a desolate rest stop, I’m either the worst hitchhiker in history,” another step closer, “or you’re labeling me with the wrong tag.”
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