Deep (Stage Dive, #4)(3)

I took a step closer, daring a peek only to find him watching me warily. He threw back some beer then set the bottle down, swiping his thumb across his mouth to catch a stray drop. In Vegas, he’d first tasted of beer, lust, and need. The most dizzying mix. He had beautiful lips, perfectly framed by his short beard. His hair had grown out of the shaved on the sides and longish on top cool hipster cut, and honestly, he looked kind of shaggy, wild.

And big, though he always looked big.

A silver ring pierced one side of his nose and he had on a green plaid shirt, top button open to showcase his thick neck and the edge of a black rose tattoo. Any money blue jeans and black boots were below. Apart from Vegas at the wedding, and then later that night in my room, I’d never seen him out of jeans. Let me assure you, there’s nothing bad about the man naked. Everything was as it should be and then some. In fact, he’d looked a lot like a dream come true.

My dream.

I swallowed hard, ignoring my perky nipples while firmly pushing the memory back down where it belonged. Buried among the Hannah Montana song lyrics, Vampire Diary character histories, and other useless and potentially damaging information collected over the years. None of it mattered anymore.

The room had gone quiet. How awkward.

Ben tugged at the collar of his shirt, shifting in his seat.

Why the hell was he staring at me? Maybe because I was still staring at him. Shit. My knees gave out and I collapsed into the chair with an ever so dainty thud. I kept my eyes cast down because down was safe. So long as I didn’t look at him or this date of his, I’d be fine and dandy. Dinner couldn’t last for more than three, four hours max. No worries.

I half raised a hand in greeting. “Hi, everyone.”

Hey’s and hi’s and variations of both floated back.

“How have you been, Liz?” asked Ev, from further down the table. She was seated beside her husband, David Ferris, Stage Dive’s lead guitarist and songwriter.

“Great.” Crap. “You?”

“Good.”

I sucked in a deep breath and smiled. “Excellent.”

“You been busy with school?” She pulled out a hair tie and bundled her blond hair up into a rough ponytail. God bless the girl. At least it wasn’t just me keeping it casual. “We haven’t seen you since Christmas.”

“Yeah, busy.” Puking and sleeping mostly. Gestating. “School and stuff, you know.”

Normally I’d have an interesting story to tell from my psych studies. Today, nada.

“Right.” Her husband slipped an arm around her shoulders and she turned to smile at him, eyes all lovelorn and our conversation forgotten.

Which worked for me.

I rubbed the toe of my boot back and forth against the floor, looking left and right and anywhere but straight ahead. I toyed with the hem of my tunic, winding a loose thread tight around my finger until it turned purple. Then I loosened it. It probably wasn’t good for the bean, somehow. As of tomorrow, I needed to start studying up on this baby stuff. Get the facts, because getting rid of the bean … it just wasn’t for me.

The date tittered at something he said and I felt a stab of pain inside. Probably gas.

“Here.” Anne filled the glass in front of me with white wine.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Try it,” she said with a smile. “It’s sweet and kind of crisp. I think you’ll like it.”

My stomach tipped upside down just at the thought. “Later maybe. I drank some water right before I arrived. So … yeah, I’m not really thirsty just yet.”

“All right.” Her eyes narrowed as she gave me a that-was-weird smile. All too soon it morphed into a flat, unhappy line. “You look a little pale. Are you okay?”

“Absolutely!” I nodded, smiled, and turned to the woman on my other side before Anne could grill me further on the subject. “Hi, Lena.”

“Lizzy. How you been?” The curvy brunette held hands with her partner, Jimmy Ferris, the lead singer of Stage Dive. He sat at the head of the table, resplendent in an undoubtedly handmade suit. When he saw me he gave me one of the chin tips the guys seemed to specialize in. It said it all. Or at least it said it all when all they wanted to say was Hey.

I nodded back at him. And all the while I could feel Anne hovering at my side, bottle of wine still in hand and big-sisterly concern growing by the moment, pawing at the ground and getting ready to pounce. I was so screwed. Anne had pretty much raised me from the age of fourteen, when our dad left and our mom checked out on us—one day just went to bed and didn’t get up again. Now and then Anne’s need to nurture still got a little out of control. What she’d have to say about the bean didn’t bear thinking about. It wouldn’t be pretty.

But one problem at a time.

“All good, Lena,” I said. “You?”

Lena opened her mouth. Whatever she’d been about to say, however, was lost beneath the sudden thrashing of drums and insanely loud wailing of guitars. It basically sounded like hell was spilling forth all around us. Armageddon had come a-knocking.

“Babe,” Anne hollered at her husband. “No death metal during dinner! We talked about this.”

Said “babe,” Malcolm Ericson, paused his head banging at the top of the table. “But, Pumpkin—”

“Please.”