by Roni Loren
Lark’s expression softened, and she reached down to pat his head awkwardly. “It’s okay, buddy . . .”
Monty lifted his leg and pissed all over her bare foot.
“Monty, no!” Pike said.
But chaos ensued after that. Lark hopping and shrieking. Monty barking and spinning in a circle. And Pike doing his damnedest not to laugh.
He wasn’t entirely successful, and that earned him a glare from Lark and a happy, yipping bark from Monty. Finally, he gathered himself together enough to direct Monty to go to his crate so he could help Lark.
He showed her to the bathroom so she could rinse her leg off in the tub, and he cleaned up the mess in the living room—after sneaking Monty his treat and a belly rub.
He was halfway through a beer when Lark stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a pair of lacy pink panties and a bra that made her breasts look like icing-covered cupcakes. His dick jumped to attention—the response automatic.
She leaned in the doorway, posing like she was at a Victoria’s Secret cover shoot, and gave him the inviting smile she’d given him from the audience tonight. “Sorry about all of that. How about we start over and get back to why we’re here, hmm?”
Pike still had the bottle of beer pressed to his lips. He lowered it and set it on the counter.
Lark’s smile spread wider and she sauntered over with a heavy sway in her hips. She pressed her hand to his chest. “I have all kinds of ways we can apologize to each other. For getting mad at your dog, I was thinking this would make it up to you.”
She dragged her hand down and lowered to her knees. Pike stared down at her. She looked like a fucking porn star at his feet. Pouty lips with a fresh coat of pink lipstick, blond hair flowing down her back. A wet dream of a woman. But when she put her painted fingernails to the zipper on his jeans, he put his hand over hers. “Stand up.”
She blinked, the sultry look shifting to a perplexed one. “What?”
He helped Lark get to her feet. “Be right back.”
Her smile returned, though it had a confused tilt to it. “O-kay.”
He headed back to his bedroom for a minute, then returned to the kitchen. She was drinking his beer, putting lipstick marks on the bottle. He draped her dress on one of the bar stools, set a pair of his flip-flops on top of it, and handed her a few hundred-dollar bills. “For the shoes and a cab.”
She stared down at the money in her hand. “What?”
“This isn’t going to happen tonight.”
“Wait, you want me to leave? But I thought—”
“It’s time for you to go.” He was tempted to take a co-selfie with her. Hashtag: HookUpFail.
She stiffened like a rod had been shoved up her back and made these little sounds of disbelief—like she was trying to come up with a really good insult but couldn’t think of any.
When she obviously couldn’t string anything worthy together, she shoved on his flip-flops, which looked like flippers on her small feet, and yanked her dress over her head. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
He dumped the beer in the sink, bored.
His lack of response brought a new level of hatred glowing in her eyes. “Is this about the dog? Because that’s just stupid. How was I supposed to know he was abused?”
He walked to his front door and pulled it open. “You never know where anyone’s scars are. Doesn’t mean you get a pass to hurt them.”
She reared back like he’d slapped her. Then her lips pressed together and she flounced out the door, muttering something about hoping that the dumb dog kept him warm tonight.
He shut the door without watching her go and leaned against it, absorbing the quiet of the condo, relief instead of disappointment settling in. Hookup fail, yes. But even he had standards. He’d rather fuck his fist than spend another second with Duckface the Puppy Poker.
A year ago, he might’ve just written it off and taken her to bed anyway. What did it matter if a woman was shallow? It wasn’t like they’d be seeing each other again. Plus, he’d always hated sleeping alone in a house. But now he couldn’t stomach the thought of spending another moment with a woman like that.
Maybe he was getting used to being by himself. After his roommate, Foster, had moved out to live with his girlfriend last year, Pike had felt that old need to always have people over. Mostly of the naked female variety. But for the last few months, he’d been so busy with band stuff and working at his music studio on the side that he hadn’t sought out that brand of companionship very often. He hadn’t even gone to The Ranch, the kink resort he and his friends belonged to, in at least three months. Tonight had been the first night he’d done the hookup-after-a-show thing in a while.
Now he remembered why he’d backed off from this kind of thing. He had no issue being someone’s one-night stand. Most of the time, he preferred things that way. But now that he’d seen how Foster and Cela were together, how explosive the chemistry could be when two people connected like that, he could see how superficial this other shit was in comparison. Women fucked his type. The bad boy. The drummer. Whatever. They didn’t fuck him.
And he’d been guilty of the same. He’d fuck the groupie, the model, the B actress. If not for Monty chewing Lark’s shoe tonight, he would’ve never known that the woman was capable of hurting a dog for something as inconsequential as a shoe. Because he didn’t know her.
For some reason, that dug into him like a burr, annoying the shit out of him.
He sank onto his bed and Monty jumped up to join him. He scratched behind Monty’s ears. “Good job, Monts. You’re making me grow a goddamned conscience.”
Monty licked his chops. There were pieces of red shoe leather stuck in his teeth.
Pike chuckled and kissed the top of Monty’s scruffy head. Monty rewarded him by releasing some noxious gas and dog-grinning at the effort.
“Jesus, Monts.” He put his hand over his nose and mouth. “Take that stuff somewhere else.”
Monty, of course, took that as his cue to settle next to him on the bed. Pike waved the poisonous fumes away, coughing, and grabbed his cell phone.
Gibson answered on the second ring. “Please tell me you last longer than that because, seriously, any thoughts of going gay for you are definitely out of the question otherwise. I require stamina.”
Pike let his head fall back to the pillow. “Shut the fuck up and stop flirting. It’s not going to work.”
“So you kicked her out?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You’re better than that,” Gib said, no sarcasm in his voice. “You need to stop dipping into the groupie pool, anyway. You’re too old for that shit. Find yourself some normal women who are your own age.”
“Normal women have too many expectations.”
“What? Like remembering their names and calling them the next day?”
“Exactly. Plus, I’m best in limited doses. I’d send normal women running for the hills after too long.”
“I don’t know. You haven’t scared off your friends yet. I mean, yes, I thought you were an egotistical douchebag when I first met you, but now you’ve grown on me. Like a fungus.”
“So you’re saying I should try to infect some normal woman with my fungus? Good talk, buddy. Good talk.”
“Dr. Phil gets all his best stuff from me.”
“Just tell me about this charity thing so I can get to bed and think about the sex I won’t be having tonight.”
Gibson paused as if ready to push the topic, but then relented. “Fine. The charity project would involve music.”
“Excellent.”
“And would be helping my lovely sister-in-law-to-be out.”
“Making sexy Tessa happy. Good.”
“You’d be working with kids.”
“And . . . I’m out.”
Gibson scoffed.
“You have something against kids?”
“I’m inked up, curse like a convict, and have piercings in questionable places. Parents don’t want me near their children, and the kids freak me out.”
“Bullshit. How can you be freaked-out? You’re one of them.”
“Sorry, Gib.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“I’m not a kid person.” He could still smell the stench of the house he’d grown up in. The overstuffed diaper pails. The spoiling government-issued baby formula. His younger siblings seeking him and his sister out when their mom couldn’t keep up.
“This would be the older group, not the little ones.”
“Can’t I just write a check or donate proceeds from a show or something?”
Gibson blew out a breath. “No, they need your expertise, not your money. Just hear me out. Tessa has a great idea for a fund-raiser, but she needs someone with experience in producing music. All the money would go toward the college fund and resources for the after-school program. You know what the charity’s about. These kids don’t have a lot, man. You and I both know what that’s like.”
Fuck. “You’re really going for the jugular here, Gib.”
“Just speaking the truth.”
Yeah, that and Gibson was a brilliant PR guy who knew how to pitch things. Monty laid his head on Pike’s chest, and Pike scratched behind Monty’s ear. “You’ve even got my dog giving me the don’t-be-a-bastard look.”
Gibson chuckled. “I sneak him treats when I’m there. He’s on my side.”
Pike ran a hand over his face. “What exactly do they want me to do?”
He could almost hear Gibson’s victory grin over the phone. “It won’t be a big deal at all.”
Pike closed his eyes. Famous last words.
Roni Loren wrote her first romance novel at age fifteen when she discovered writing about boys was way easier than actually talking to them. Since then, her flirting skills haven’t improved, but she likes to think her storytelling ability has. Though she’ll forever be a New Orleans girl at heart, she now lives in Dallas with her husband and son. If she’s not working on her latest sexy story, you can find her reading, watching reality television, or indulging in her unhealthy addiction to rock stars, er, rock concerts. Yeah, that’s it. Visit her website: roniloren.com.
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