The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(27)
“What? Sorry, Kyles.”
Kylie laughed as she saw the Bob Marley YouTube video playing on her screen. “OMG, Satan called and reported it’s frostier than a polar bear’s ass crack down there. You’re listening to reggae?”
Eloise made a face. “I don’t want to listen to it, but since Cole likes it so much I thought I should at least give the classics a chance. I still don’t get it. It all sounds the same to me.”
“That’s a big step for you, cottoning to a man’s likes and dislikes. This must be serious between you and Cole. What else does he like?” Kylie asked, waggling her eyebrows.
Eloise telegraphed a warning look. “None of your business, Miss Nosey Rosie. We’ve gone to dinner a few times, some movies, live music. That’s all.”
“I don’t believe you. Hockey jocks don’t waste any time getting ‘into the slot,’ if you know what I mean,” Kylie said, chuckling at her very inappropriate reference. Luckily, El didn’t care, and no one else was within earshot.
Eloise hid a shy smile but refused to comment. Her slot remained closed. “Hey, miss social media. They’re having a karaoke competition at Blues & Brews tonight. Cole’s doing a song and so are some of the guys on the team. You should come. And tell your legion of followers to come too. It’s a good idea to support the local businesses.”
Kylie pursed her lips and gave a nod. “Sounds like fun, maybe I will. Oh, Murphy likes your commercial, by the way. Seems you’re making everybody happy lately. See what a little love in your life does?” she teased.
“Who said anything about love?” Eloise scoffed. “Sheehan’s only happy that we’re on schedule to open April fifteenth and the protesters have disappeared, thank goodness. They’re all busy organizing acts for the talent showcase.”
“I’ll say it again El, the Riot for Rochester thing – a stroke of brilliance. Now I know why you make the big bucks.”
“Stick with me, kiddo, you’ll go places,” Eloise said with a wink.
***
The inside of Blues & Brews was warm and festive despite the late-March cold snap that had settled over Rochester. Spring couldn’t come fast enough, Eloise thought, then her blood might finally thaw. She entered the establishment dressed in black leggings, a long V-neck sweater tunic, and tall riding boots, drawing unabashed stares from several men as she passed by in her form-fitting attire. She’d paid extra attention to her hair and make-up tonight, knowing he’d be on stage performing and wanting him proud to have her by his side.
She scanned for Cole and found him near the raised structure, arranging the microphone, amps, and control board. His eyes raked her up and down as she approached, clearly appreciating the view.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he said back, a sexy smile forming on his unshaven face. “You look fabulous, babe. You’re gonna knock ‘em dead tonight.”
“Oh, no, BB, you’re not getting me up on that stage,” she said, reverting to the initials that reflected his nickname. Two could play at that game. “I’m a terrible singer. Just think dying cow and you’ll have the tune for your listening pleasure.”
He walked over and planted a kiss on her lips. “Oh, I’ll make you sing,” he said confidently, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Just maybe not on that stage.”
“Promises, promises,” she replied, kissing him again as he dropped a playful swat on her sweater-clad rump. “I’ll look forward to the day they cease to be empty.”
“I’ve never made an empty promise,” he whispered. “Especially to a woman.”
Over his shoulder, she spotted someone looking in their direction, and her stomach twisted. Ryder sat at the bar, nursing a beer, and glaring at them. It shouldn’t have surprised her to see him here, but it felt uncomfortable just the same. El hoped he didn’t start something that Cole would feel compelled to finish.
“Hello, Ryder,” she said as they approached the bar. His head snapped up, and his eyes narrowed.
“El,” Ryder nodded. Cole ordered beers, and Eloise glanced around the room, avoiding Ryder’s pointed gaze. Several players from the Riot gathered around tables near the back.
“Hey, Shred!” Cole called out. “You guys need more brews?”
Sheldon “Shredder” Politski, their starting goalie, waved in assent. “Yeah,” the guys all answered in unison.
Spud appeared behind the bar and started pulling pints and setting them on a tray. “Hi, Spencer,” Eloise said, still not comfortable with the penchant for strange nicknames.
“Hi, Eloise. Spud will do around here,” he replied with a wink.
She smiled and nodded. “Spud it is, then.”
“You gonna sing tonight?” he asked.
“You kidding? Trust me, you’d rather hear tomcats fighting in an alley than listen to me sing.”
“Aw, you’re too modest, I’m sure.” He finished filling the last pint mug and turned to serve another customer. Cole walked the tray of beers over to the guys’ table, leaving Eloise and Ryder alone. She tried to look fascinated by the label on the bottle of craft beer in front of her – a blonde ale called Death Rides a Pale Horse. Hopefully, it wasn’t a foreshadowing of her future.