Rock Chick Revenge (Rock Chick #5)(48)

“Bass,” she said, jerking her head toward the bass player.

“Thanks,” I muttered and took the glass, my eyes moving to the bass player who, I noted, was watching me. The minute my eyes hit his, he smiled at me. I smiled back, lifted my glass in a thank you salute, sniffed the shot (tequila) and tossed it back.

I no sooner had my head straightened when my wrist was seized and I was dragged across the dance floor.

“What the –” I started to say but Luke pulled me to a halt, grabbed my purse from the table and threw it at me. I caught it and noticed the Bad Boys were all glaring at me unhappily and I blinked at them in confusion. Luke tore the shot glass out of my hand, crashed it to the table and dragged me out of the bar.

“Hey! I was having fun!” I yelled at his back.

He stopped at the Porsche, yanked me around, my back to it, him in front of me and he closed in until I felt car behind me and had nowhere to retreat.

Then he growled, “I noticed.”

“Why’d you drag me out of there?”

“We’re goin’ home.”

It was then I got a good look at him. “Are you angry?” I asked stupidly because it was clear he was not only angry, he was angry.

“You’ve got to be f**kin’ shittin’ me,” he snapped.

“What?”

He moved around me to open the door but being drunk and not thinking clearly (if I was thinking clearly I would have run screaming into the night), I moved into his face.

“What?” I asked again.

“Get in the car.”

“What?”

“Jesus. I want to think you aren’t playin’ games but I know you’re f**kin’ playin’ games. Nobody’s that stupid.”

My fine and loose feeling slipped a notch mainly because, again, it felt like he’d slapped me across the face.

He watched my face change in the streetlight.

“I’m not stupid,” I whispered.

He got close and backed me against the car again. I went, my head tilted back to look at him, my feelings still smarting from his comment.

“So you’re sayin’ you don’t know that every f**kin’ guy’s dick is hard from watchin’ you move. Christ, give you a pole and put you in a g-string, you wouldn’t have been more effective.”

My mouth dropped open. Then I snapped it shut.

“I was just dancing,” I told him.

“Right.”

“I was.”

He watched me but stayed silent.

“I like to dance,” I said softly. “I was just dancing.”

He kept watching me and it seemed like he did this for a long time. Finally, his hand came to my neck with his thumb out to touch my jaw.

“Jesus, you aren’t lyin’,” he muttered.

I shook my head because no, I wasn’t lying. Instead I was freaking out about what he said.

“I’m never going to dance again,” I said, quietly to myself on a little tremble, so upset at the thought of people watching me, men watching me and having that reaction that I didn’t even care I was quoting bad eighties music. Serious yuck.

“Ava.”

My eyes had slid to the side and they came back to Luke. “Men suck,” I whispered. “They take everything. Everything.”

Before he could respond, I slid out from between him and the car and turned to the door. He didn’t say a word just bleeped the locks. I opened my door and got in. He shut it for me, got in on his side and we glided out into the street.

I watched Denver pass me as Luke took us to his loft. Neither of us spoke. I was still drunk and I wanted to be happy but I couldn’t stop the dark “all men are bastards” thoughts from flooding my head.

He parked and we took the elevator to his loft. He switched on the lamps and I went directly to the Triumph t-shirt which was sitting, folded, on the barstool where I left it two days ago. I dumped my purse on the bar, grabbed the tee and walked to the bathroom.

“I’m going to bed,” I announced and then walked into the bathroom, shut the door, took out my contacts, got ready for bed, put on my glasses and walked out. I dumped my clothes on my suitcases and headed toward the bed.

I saw that Luke was in the kitchen. I grabbed a pillow and walked to the couch. I threw the pillow down, threw myself on the couch and settled on my side. I was going to sleep there, without a blanket if I had to, I didn’t care.

On this thought, Luke’s legs came into my vision. I looked up. He was holding a glass of water out to me.

“What’s that?”

“Ibuprofen and water. Take it, you’ll need it for the morning.”

“I don’t get hangovers,” I informed him, again not lying. I had to be far more drunk than I was to get a hangover. Sissy called it my gift. She got a hangover after two beers.

“Take it,” he demanded.

I was in no mood to argue. I was in the mood to go to sleep for fifty years, wake up an old maid and live out my life in a nursing home with my only excitement being Friday Night Bingo.

I sat up, took the pills he had in his fist and drank the water. When I was done, he pulled the empty glass from my hand and put it on the coffee table. Then he came back to me and, I kid you not, picked me up (again!), turned and sat on the couch, settling me in his lap, his arms around me.