Rock Chick Revolution (Rock Chick #8)(2)

And last, he dressed really well. For work, fabulous suits that were tailored for him. Outside of work, he could do jeans and even tees, and he wore them well, but usually he put on a shirt or a sweater (if it was cold) with his jeans and he wore those way better.

But with Ren it wasn’t about the clothes. It was about the man.

And Ren Zano was all man.

Unfortunately, I liked men who were all man.

I also had a weakness for men in suits.

I just didn’t like bossy, annoying and in my face.

And, of course, someone who would eventually break my heart, even though I figured he genuinely didn’t know he was going to eventually do it.

But I knew he would.

His voice came at me, smooth and deep, but also soft and sweet.

“Ally, baby, last night proved we have to have this out, once and for all,”

Shit.

He was using his sweet voice. That always did a number on me. I knew this because, when he switched to it during a fight, this would be around the time I’d jump him.

I opened my eyes. “There’s nothing to have out.”

His eyebrows shot up (he had great eyebrows too, by the way).

“Have you lost your mind?”

Ren asked this a lot.

“No,” I replied.

And this was always my answer.

His hand, still in my belly, pressed lightly as his face dipped closer. “Babe, straight up, last night you f**ked up. You’ve f**ked up before, but last night, you totally f**ked up. It’ll take me, Uncle Vito, your brothers, both of them, Marcus and pretty much every-f*ckin’-body to cover your ass for the shit you pulled last night.”

Thus commenced the me-getting-pissed portion of The Talk, which usually led to the me-yelling portion of The Talk, and that moved into the Ren-yelling portion of The Talk, which tended to culminate in the me-stomping-out-portion of our talk (or, alternately, us having a hot, great, fast quickie, then I’d get dressed and stomp out).

“I saved Faye’s life last night,” I reminded him curtly.

“You got on some serious as shit radar last night,” he returned.

“I got them what they wanted.” I kept sharing recent memories.

“You got on radar,” he semi-repeated. “You do not want a single one of those men to know you exist. You really don’t want them to know you got access and skills. You dabble in this shit, Ally. It isn’t your life. It’s a pastime. You do not have a solid network. You do not have back up. You do not have experience. So far, all you’ve got is a shitload of luck and persistence. The first eventually is gonna run out. The second is gonna make it run out and get you into trouble.”

I didn’t hear a lot of what he said since I was stuck on a word he used close to the beginning.

Dabble.

“Dabble?” I whispered warningly.

I knew he caught my warning because we’d managed, even as f**k buddies (according to me), to spend a lot of time together the last year, so he could read me.

I also knew he caught my warning because he threw one of his long, heavy, muscled legs over mine and he got even closer.

“Ally—”

“Dabble?” My voice had risen as my eyes had narrowed.

“Do you get paid for this shit?” he asked.

“Not in money,” I answered.

“Then it’s not a profession. It’s a hobby. And it’s dangerous, Ally. And this is the last time I’m gonna tell you, you gotta stop doing it.”

My eyes narrowed further. My chest started burning and I opened my mouth to commence the yelling portion of The Talk.

* * * * *

Rock Chick Rewind

Backing up a bit, my name is Allyson Nightingale, but everyone calls me Ally.

And I’m a Rock Chick, in name and deed.

That is to say, I worship at the shrine of Rock ‘n’ Roll and I live the rock star life, doing what I want when I want how I want. When I’m not working as a bartender or backup barista, of course, and with a lot less money.

Me and my best friend, India “Indy” Savage (now Nightingale since she married my brother, Lee) have a posse called the Rock Chicks. It’s our posse mostly because we’re the band leaders, as it were, and being rock chicks, they’d be Rock Chicks.

So they are.

Indy and I began the tradition. And some of the Rock Chicks might not be as crazy as me and Indy, but they’re Rock Chicks to the core.

Definitely.

* * * * *

The Rock Chicks do not include my brothers (because they’re dudes, and unless the dude is g*y, he can’t be a Rock Chick), Henry “Hank” Nightingale and Liam “Lee” Nightingale. They’re both older than me.

Hank’s a badass cop. As far as I can tell, Lee’s just a professional badass.

My dad is also a cop. So was his dad. Gramps died in the line of duty.

So badass and brave runs in the family.

And as far as I’m concerned, I got those genes.

It’s just that no one agrees with me.

* * * * *

See, about two years ago Indy caught a bit of trouble. She owns a used bookstore called Fortnum’s, but it also serves coffee. In fact, if she didn’t serve coffee, she’d be screwed because she doesn’t sell very many books.

She also landed herself a barista named Tex (who is a bona fide nut, but a lovable one—mostly) who’s a latte/cappuccino/espresso-making genius. He’s the Yo-Yo Ma of coffee. In fact, Mr. Ma would put down his cello in the middle of a performance to take a sip of Tex’s coffee, it’s that good.