Absorbed(8)

As I settle into a seat at the dimly lit bar, my phone vibrates. At first, I ignore it and focus my attention on Drowning Pool’s “Bodies,” but after it buzzes a few more times, I drag it out of my pocket. I’m not surprised to find a string of messages from my sister.

11:29 PM: Are you alright, Lucas?

11:44 PM: Because Wyatt said you’re having a hard time.

11:48 PM: Lucas?

Making a mental note to strangle the shit out of Wyatt the next time I see him, I release a frustrated noise as I message her back. I’m nowhere near as quick as Kylie, and no sooner than I let her know that I’m alright and that I hope she has a good night not screwing with me, she responds again.

11:52 PM: You answered too fast. Did something happen?

One of the bartenders—thankfully not the same one who took me home a couple months ago—leans across the counter and her lips thin into a wide smile. “Relax, Mr. Rockstar. You’re about to break that thing into two.” She dips her head down to the phone I’m clutching in the palm of my hand. I glance at it too and loosen my grip, earning a “that’s better” from the blonde. “Haven’t seen you around in a long time. Been busy?”

I try like hell to come up with her name. I drag my eyes over her, searching for a nametag. When I don’t see one, I lift the corners of my mouth and shrug. “New music and shit.”

“Well then I’m glad you’ve been away.” Slinging her long straight hair over one of her bare shoulders, she straightens her back but not before purposely squeezing her tits together so that they come close to spilling over the top of her black halter. “I f*cking adore your music.” She winks one of her heavily lined dark eyes at me—a clear invitation. I give her a dick response by asking for my usual, seasonal Sam Adams, and her smile grows even wider. “Anything for you.”

I follow her movements as she grabs my drink, which are all a little more dramatic and sensual than they normally would be, and finally spot her nametag pinned to the bottom of her shirt. She pretends to be oblivious to the appreciative grins of the rest of the mother f*ckers sitting at the bar when she returns to me with one bottle more than I asked for, which I gratefully accept. “Want me to start a tab for you?”

I take a gulp of the beer, downing more in twenty seconds than I’ve drank all night, before nodding. “I’ll be here awhile.”

“Should I hold on to your keys?” She’s already holding her hand out, revealing a cluster of star tattoos across her wrist. “Come on, hand them over, Rockstar.”

It’s yet another invitation—one that any other man at this bar would grab and f*ck in a second—but I’m not them. I shake my head. “I’ve got good self-control.”

She takes a step backward, wiping her hands on the front of her tight jeans. “Oh, I’ve heard. Let me know if you need anything, ‘kay?”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

She focuses her efforts on another customer, leaving me to my beer and my misery. I sit, hunched over my drink, wondering what the f*ck is wrong with me. Two months ago and I would have taken the bartender back to a hotel and taken everything she was willing to give and coaxed her into offering me even more.

Now—now I’m this.

So f*cked up that I can even hear Sienna’s soft, Southern accent over the sound of Slipknot’s “Snuff” playing on the jukebox.

I tip my beer bottle up and down the rest of my drink. I drink the second one a little quicker, trying my goddamn best to pretend like I don’t still hear her voice. When I finish the beer in record time, I signal the blonde bartender. Widening her eyes in surprise, she holds up a finger, indicating that it’ll be just a moment. When she turns back to her current customer, I let my gaze follow, and I realize that I know the woman ordering drinks.

Did I f*ck her?

I shake that thought out of my head because I remember every one-night stand and every second of on-the-road sex I’ve ever gotten.

Is she one of Kylie’s friends?

But I wipe that idea away almost as quickly as the last. My sister doesn’t do female friends—she doesn’t trust anyone but her friend Heidi.

So why the f*ck do I recognize the brunette?

A backstage pass, maybe? A journalist? Or a—

And then it comes to me like a kick square in my balls—an old memory of standing outside of an apartment a couple years ago, ready to apologize for my most recent mess-up, and this woman answering the door.