Page 10 of Down Beat
He leans forward, the studded cuff on his left wrist making a soft clink as it hits the timber surface.
“Ohmygod,” the horn bag breathes in one rushed syllable as she arrives at my table. “I can’t believe you’re in here.”
The cocky asshole drags his gaze from me and smiles at her, laying on the charm. “Good place to get a coffee, right?”
“The best,” she gushes, oblivious to the intense standoff she interrupted.
I sit back and sip my latte, sizing up the woman. She seems to be in her late twenties, early thirties at most. What surprises me is that she’s dressed like a soccer mom. Not exactly what I’d expect a fan of a man kitted out in denim, leather, and enough chains to rival a prison warden to look like.
“Can you sign this?”
“Kris leave me any room?” He takes the napkin from her, brushing his fingers over hers.
The woman damn near comes on the spot. Slick move, asshole.
“I think there’s a space up here.” And in one swift move, Soccer Mom transforms to Desperate Housewife with the tilt of her hips. The blouse that mere seconds ago demurely hid her assets now hangs like a slack sail in the Dead Sea, giving the cocky asshole to my left the perfect view of her ample tits.
Shoot me if I ever turn into one of those.
“Thanks.” He takes the pen she offers and then scratches a quick message for her like he probably has a million times before.
She leaves with her smile a little wider, and her panties more than likely a darn sight wetter.
“Excuse me.” I pull my phone out, amused to find him frowning at me in my periphery.
“What are you doing?” He leans closer to see my screen, wafting what has to be pure pheromones under my nostrils. How the fuck do they make men’s cologne so addictive?
“I’m googling your name, since you won’t introduce yourself properly.”
He laughs, the rich sound traveling throughout the shop as his bandmate, Kris, returns with a table number.
“Shouldn’t you have like a private coffee shop, or something?” I sass. “Don’t celebrities like you get places shut down so they can drink in peace?” The result comes up on my screen, along with an assortment of very hot performance shots. Damn, this man can rock studs.
“She’s kidding right?” Kris mumbles to the cocky asshole.
“I don’t think so.” He smiles at me, leaning back casually in his seat. “I can’t believe you don’t know my name.” The jerk spreads his legs wide, a denim-clad knee perilously close to my thigh.
“Do you know every stranger you meet’s name?” I lift an eyebrow at him. “Rey?”
“Babe, I’m not a stranger.” Fucker still smiles. “I haven’t had to introduce myself for the past four and half years.”
“Since we first made Billboard,” Kris adds quietly.
I like him. He’s not in-your-face like this jackass to my left. He’s quiet, humble even. He actually makes me want to hold a conversation with him.
Rey, on the other hand…. “You’re a little full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Kris smiles behind his linked hands, elbows on the table.
“Would you prefer to be full of me?” Rey wiggles a pierced eyebrow.
“You have to be shitting me,” I mumble, looking away.
“You never answered my question, Tabitha,” Rey taunts. “Or can I call you Tabby, since you’re like a wild cat, all claws and snarl?”
I almost smile at his comment… almost.
“Tabitha.” I look back at the guy, pissed at myself for recognizing that he is in fact pretty damn good-looking. Bastard. “And I play classical. A little bit of crossover.”