“I’d better go.” His voice is low and rough, full of what he doesn’t say.
I open my eyes to stare into his, wanting to protest, but no coherent words come. His eyes are so dark there is no color to them at all, just guarded depths, full of thoughts and motivations I can’t decipher.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, extracting himself slowly from my legs and hands. He leans over me, kissing my forehead, turning and padding from the room without a backward glance. I lie motionless except for the in and out of my breath, the beat of my heart, the pulse through my veins. Almost convinced I’ve dreamed the entire interlude, I fall asleep, and do dream it. Over and over.
Chapter 20
REID
Walt is into a my-body’s-a-temple phase. I don’t judge—I mean maybe he hit a wall. He was going pretty hardcore for a while, getting into shit I won’t even touch. And I’ve touched a lot. We’re at the bar they’ll be playing tomorrow, and while I’m on my second beer, Walt has charmed the chick bartender into heating water for a cup of tea (he brought his own Tazo).
Yeah, the half-Asian guy is having tea in the bar. And I’ll be goddamned if it couldn’t get him play from some of the girls nearby.
Bob, obviously still offended that I shot his avatar, sent Jeff with us tonight. Jeff is plenty imposing. He’s as much of a land mass as Bob, covered in tattoos, and has a single, thin scar running through one eyebrow, touching the cheek below and continuing off the jaw. At some point I’m going to be drunk enough to ask him how he got it. I just hope I remember his answer, if he gives it. Must be some story.
The band is good. Not as good as Walt’s, but decent. The floor space below the little rise on which the band performs is full of people dancing—mostly girls. As the evening wears on, they begin to notice Walt and me… and Jeff. That’s the thing about bodyguards. The main purpose of them is intimidation, with protection a close second. Enough intimidation and the protection element is never called into play. This is all great when there’s a threat, which is not the case at the moment. I’m about to tell Jeff to get invisible when a couple of girls break off from the herd and come over. Jesus, finally.
“Excuse me,” one says. “We were thinkin’ you guys look lonely.” None too original. But they’re both drop-dead hot, so who cares.
Apparently, Walt cares. “Nah. I’m enjoying the music and just watching you girls dance. Reid?”
The girl’s face goes through the emotions of having been rejected and complimented, and then her eyes widen and she looks at me, blinking. “Are you for real Reid Alexander? I mean we thought you looked like him but you’re really him? You’re not shittin’ me?”
Jeff sits up straighter, crosses his arms over his chest. The posture doesn’t go unnoticed, but it doesn’t dissuade them, either. “Seriously?” the second girl says. “Ohmigod.” She looks back at Walt.
“I’m nobody,” he says, and sips his tea, observing her through a black fringe of bangs.
She looks as though she doesn’t believe him. “Then it’ll be okay with him—” she gestures to Jeff “—if I take you with me?”
Walt laughs. “I suppose so, in theory. But I’m not interested in going anywhere. You’re welcome to have a seat, though?”
She looks at his lap as he hooks an empty chair at a nearby table with his foot and pulls it over. As she’s considering, some recorded pop song comes on because the band is taking a break. The girls both squeal and ask us to dance. Something about Walt’s expression says holy mother of God, no, but he sort of smiles. “No, thanks.”
Right then the guitarist for the band, a curvy chick with purple hair, multiple piercings and huge blue eyes, glides between the two girls and sits in the chair, ignoring the girls and me completely and leaning towards Walt. His foot is still hooked around the leg of the chair. “You’re Walt Riggs.” She sticks her hand out. “I’m Carrie.” Walt takes it, turns her hand over to read the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, which looks like Latin. “It basically says ‘been there, done that,’” she says.
“Cool… You sure you’ve been there enough, done that enough, to have it permanently inscribed?”
She shrugs. “Maybe not. But I’m getting closer, and I’ve already got the ink saying so when I get there.”
He gives her a genuine smile, and she laughs, throaty and full. I have to hand it to him, she’s hands down the most intriguing chick in here.
“BRB,” I say, taking both of the other girls, neither of whom Walt is paying any attention to, onto the dance floor.
Jeff and I drop him off at his hotel a couple of hours later. I thought he might take Carrie back to his hotel room, because they talked whenever she wasn’t playing, but he said, “No, man, that’s a professional relationship, you know? Ever heard the rule ‘don’t shit where you eat’?”
“But you just met her tonight, so how professional could that relationship be?”
He chews the inside of his cheek, thinking. “That’s the thing. How professional could it ever be, if we just use each other for sex now?”
Huh. “If you were playing her, I guess that reasoning makes sense. But if it was mutual?”
He smiles, shakes his head. “It’s never mutual. Somebody always wants more. People’s psyches are complex, man.”
I consider that for about five seconds. “Okay, so text me tomorrow with what time you want us at the back entrance. There’ll be between five to ten of us.”