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Then I’ll stop thinking about Cedar.
And when she leans into the bar, pushing her tits in my direction for the perfect place to rest my eyes, I know damn well I could have her if I just asked nicely.
“What’s your name, darlin’?”
“Oh, darlin’ll do.” She plucks the card from my offered hand and shoves it into the reader. “You planning on venturing out there much?” Her hot gaze slides down my bare chest, pausing at the rings through my nipples and I don’t miss the nibble she gives her bottom lip when she gets to the trail of tats and dark hair leading down into the pants slung low on my hips. “Getting some more ink?”
Shit.
I had planned on it.
Until a certain artist had to leave me hanging in the middle of her parlor and left a weird as fuck taste in my mouth.
And now the thought of letting anyone else put ink on my skin makes it crawl.
The cock I thought would start filling at any moment remains flaccid in my jeans, the bartender completely unaware of the train of thought I was desperately trying to avoid ruining the chances of me laying her down behind the bar.
Goddamnit.
“Thinking about it.” I snag up the drinks once she hands over my card and send her a simple nodding thanks over my shoulder as I fist all five glasses between both hands.
I walk back to the gaggle of fucks I call friends and pass out the drinks to each band member. We go through another toast, but it’s somehow less enthusiastic this time.
Once the liquor hits the back of my throat, I growl and shake away the remaining post-show jitters and look around at my crew.
Rex is already on his phone, no doubt calling his girl.
Leo is keeping Toby from ordering another drink.
And Mac is practically vibrating, his eyes darting all around the tent like he’s seeing ghosts. Or looking for them behind the canvas walls with his non-existent X-ray vision.
Jesus, I need to get out of here.
“I’m gonna go walk.”
I don’t wait for a reply as I set my glass on the nearest surface and head for what looks to be the exit.
Chapter Six
Cedar
“Seriously,Aria,getyaboy.”
My best friend snorts into the receiver on the other end of the line and rustles of fabric tell me she’s shaking her damn head at the predicament I’m in.
“You’re the one in his sights, C. That makes him your problem.” I didn’t tell her quite everything about running into Fin last night and part of me really wants to get this shit off my chest.
But it becomes awkward when too many people know that the famous guitarist stood in my empty parlor and jerked off inside his jeans.
Now how am I supposed to look him in the face without getting wet?
Like I wasn’t already.
“Ugh.” I pinch the phone between my cheek and my shoulder with that feeling of not being good enough tightening my chest as I lean into my case and pull out supplies to clean the chair I’ve already had a client in despite the fact that the gates have just opened.
Thumping bass rattles the walls, making the call a little difficult to hear, but I manage because I need the voice of reason to outweigh the voice in my head, which is only giving me two options.
Baseball bat or sex.
