Читать книгу Straddling the Line - Sarah M. Anderson - Страница 7

Stick’s chord from “Dirty Deed Done Dirt Cheap” still hung in the air as Ben attacked his drums with a wild energy for the next song. Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” was his best song, one he could literally beat the hell out of.

The groupies crowded around the front of the stage at The Horny Toad Bar screamed as Ben tore through his big solo. Stick, his oldest friend in the world, came in hard on the guitar riff, and—in that brief moment before Rex started singing—Ben could pretend that the Rapid City Rollers were a real rock band, not a weekend cover band.

Try his best, though, Rex couldn’t come close to David Lee Roth—or Sammy Hagar, for that matter—so the illusion that Ben was a professional drummer never lasted. Sure, they were popular here, but South Dakota didn’t have a lot of people in it. Still, this was Ben’s song, and he gave it his all. The crowd was on its feet, somewhere between dancing and moshing in drunken delight.

Saturday nights were the best. For one long night once a week, Ben wasn’t a CFO. He didn’t have to worry about Billy’s slow production pace costing the company too much money. He didn’t care if the banks floated him the stop-gap loans he needed. He could forget about whatever Bobby was screwing around with. And most of all, he didn’t even have to think about his father, who was determined to grind the family business into the ground just to prove that his way was not only better than Ben’s way, but that his way was the only way. For one night a week, Ben didn’t have to care about how Dad looked at him with nothing but disappointment in his eyes. None of that mattered. On Saturday nights, Ben was a drummer. That was all.

He loved having something he could beat the hell out of, over and over, but instead of leaving destruction in his wake like Dad did, he made something that he loved—something beautiful, in its own brutal way. Something that other people loved, too. It wasn’t the same as Billy’s bikes, but it was Ben’s and Ben’s alone. A week’s worth of frustration went into each beat.

Something was different tonight. Rex was hitting most of the high notes, and the crowd was eating it up. The Horny Toad was one of their best gigs—they played here once a month. Ben should be enjoying himself. But no matter how hard he hit his drums, he couldn’t get the sound of one Josette White Plume saying, “Isn’t there … anything I can do to change your mind?” out of his head.

That voice had been floating around in his dreams for eight freaking days now, and he was damn tired of it. It had gotten to the point where he’d begun to think he should have taken her up on her offer—get her out of his system before she’d gotten into it.

The hell of it was that he couldn’t quite nail down why he was stuck on her. Sure, she’d been beautiful—but the Horny Toad was loaded with hot chicks tonight. Yeah, she was probably the smartest woman he’d talked to in weeks—months, even. And, okay, he’d have to admit that her fiery, take-no-prisoners business pitch combined with that note of vulnerability at the end, right before his family had crashed the joint, had made his body throb.

But she was just a woman. Maybe that was it, he thought as he wailed away on his drums. Maybe it had just been too long since he’d had a woman. Hell.

Stick held the high note at the end for an extra beat while Ben let the cymbals have it at the end. Their eyes met and they nodded in time, cutting off at the same moment. The crowd howled for more, which was a nice feeling. Someone threw a bra onto the stage, which Toadie, the bassist, snatched up and waved in victory. “We’ll be back after a little meet ‘n’ greet break,” Rex announced, tossing his guitar pick to an unnaturally busty blonde.

“You coming?” Stick asked as the house music filled the bar. Rex and Toadie had already been enveloped by the groupies, and Ben knew Stick was itching to get out there and join them.

Ben didn’t go anymore, but Stick always asked. He was a good friend. “No,” he started to say, but then a woman caught his eye.

She was tall and lean and wearing a white sequined tank top over a nice chest that caught some of the stage lights and made her glow, even though he was wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar. But that wasn’t what drew his attention. No, something about the way she was looking at him …

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

The woman turned to talk to someone else, but then glanced back over her shoulder at him. Cascades of dark hair spilled down her back, coming to an end just above the kind of ass that would haunt a man. He’d caught just a glimpse of her walking out of his office before Dad and Billy had erupted into World War III, but he wasn’t likely to forget it anytime soon.

No doubt about it. Josette White Plume was in the house.

“Yeah,” he told Stick, “I think I will.” Together, they hopped off the side of the stage and ducked around the chicken wire.

Someone grabbed his butt, and a few chicks tried to throw themselves in front of him, but Ben ignored them all. He was focused on the woman in the sequined top.

Maybe he was wrong, he thought as he got closer. Her back was still to him, and all that hair was throwing him off. The woman who’d come to his office had had a twist pinned up in a classy, elegant style that matched her classy, sleek dress. The woman a few feet away from him wore skintight jeans and had long hair that hung in loose curls. He couldn’t tell about the color in this light, but he was sure he’d recognize that reddish black anywhere.

He closed the remaining distance, grabbed the woman’s bare arm and spun her around. She tried to jerk away with such force that it pulled him into her. His sunglasses came off in the resulting jostling.

“Hey!” A smaller woman—clearly Native American—pushed her way between Ben and his prey. “Get your hands off her, you creep!”

Now that he had her face-to-face, without his sunglasses, he could see the red in her hair—and the fire in her eyes. “What the— Oh!” Recognition set in, and the anger became shock. “Ben?”

Ben glanced down at his hand and was surprised to see that he was still holding her. Her skin was creamy smooth against his. In her other hand, she held a bottle. “What are you doing here?”

“Who’s asking?” the smaller woman demanded. She sounded comfortable being the boss.

“No, Jenny—let me explain.”

“What’s to explain?” The woman named Jenny shoved Ben’s chest. “He can’t just grab you, Josey.”

Josey. God, what a pretty name. Would he ever get this woman out of his head?

Josette—Josey—blushed. “Jenny, this is Ben Bolton, CFO of Crazy Horse Choppers.”

“Wait—you’re the guy who didn’t give us anything?” She sniffed in distaste. Ben decided he kind of liked Jenny. She had spunk.

But Josey—Josey had fire. The heat coming off that woman was making him sweat with need. “Jenny! Ben,” she went on, hell-bent on formal introductions in the middle of one of the grimier bars in the state, “this is Jenny Wahwasuck. She’s one of the teachers at our new school.”

“And her cousin, so you just watch yourself, buddy.” Jenny crossed her arms and glared at him.

Someone bumped him from behind, shoving him into Josey. Jenny made loud noises of protest.

Screw this. He couldn’t find out what she was doing here in the middle of the bar with her cousin watching him like a hawk. He leaned in close to whisper, “I need to talk to you—alone,” in Josey’s ear—which was a mistake. Up close, he could smell her scent, something light and clean, with a hint of citrus. She smelled delicious.

It took all of his willpower to lean back, but he didn’t get far. Instead, he found himself staring into her big brown eyes. The slick, overconfident ballbuster who’d talked her way into his office was gone, and in her place was someone who looked surprisingly sweet and vulnerable—considering the bar they were in.

She nodded and turned to her cousin. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Wait—what? No way!” Jenny tried to shove Ben back, but he didn’t give her any leeway this time.

“It’s about the school,” Josey said.

Except it wasn’t. But if that was the lie that worked, he was willing to nod and play along. Jenny rolled her eyes in frustration, but turned to Ben and said, “If she’s not back here in one piece in ten minutes …”

“I just want to talk to her.”

The hell he did. He wanted to do everything but talk, a fact made all the more clear when Josey slipped her hand into his and waited for him to lead her away.

Ben plowed through the crowd like a bulldozer. There was only one place quiet enough to not have a conversation in this joint—the small closet that served as the band’s dressing room.

As he worked his way back there, two conflicting emotions ran headlong into each other. First off, he was pissed. Saturday night was his night off. He didn’t have to think about people taking and taking and taking from him until he had nothing left to give, about how he never got anything back. He didn’t want to think about some school in the middle of nowhere, and he sure as hell didn’t want to have to think about the bottom line.

The other thing barreling through his thoughts was the way Josey had laced her fingers with his, the way his thumb was stroking small circles around her palm and the way he wanted to bury his face in her hair and find out if she tasted of oranges or limes.

He pulled her into the dressing room with more force than he needed—she came willingly—and slammed the door shut. Don’t touch her, he told himself, because touching her again would be a mistake, and Ben wasn’t the kind of guy who made mistakes. He was the kind of guy who fixed other people’s mistakes.

Still, that didn’t explain why she was backed against the wall, trapped between his arms. Hey, at least he wasn’t touching her.

“Why are you here?” he demanded, keeping his voice low. No need to shout, not when he was less than a foot from her face.

She licked her lips. They were a deep plum color, like a fine wine begging to be savored.

Not. Touching. Her.

“Jenny’s son is at her mother’s house. It’s a girl’s night out….” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him through thick lashes.

He was not going to fall for that old trick—no matter how well it was working. “You told her we were going to talk about the school. I already said no. How did you track me down?”

“I came to hear the band.” Her voice had dropped to a feather whisper. He couldn’t help it if he had to lean in closer to hear it. “I came for the music.”

“Bull.” No way did he believe that—not even if he really wanted to.

She swallowed, then one hand reached up and traced his cheek. He wasn’t touching her, but the mistake was huge nonetheless. Heat poured into him, all coming from that one, single touch.

Just a woman, he told himself. He just needed a woman, and she fit the bill. That didn’t explain why he couldn’t look at her and feel her at the same time without doing something he knew he’d regret, so he shut his eyes. It didn’t block out the sound of her voice, though.

“I’ve seen you play before.”

“Prove it.”

“Fat Louie’s—late last March, although I forget the day. The singer was different that night.” Her other hand palmed his other cheek. So soft. So sweet. “Not quite as good as this guy, but not bad.”

Bobby had taken the mic that night—Rex had the flu. She wouldn’t know that unless she was telling the truth … but Bobby had left with a smokin’ hot woman that night, and raved about the sex for weeks after that. “Are you some kind of groupie? Did you go home with him?”

“I’m a corporate fundraiser.” Her voice packed more heat this time, taking his challenge head-on. “I don’t do one-night stands, and I don’t screw men I don’t know.”

His body throbbed. Two tense meetings—did this qualify as knowing each other? Was screwing on the table? Damn. It had been too long since he’d had a woman.

“Before that, it was at Bob’s Roadhouse,” she went on. “I think that one was right before Thanksgiving. You did a metal version of ‘Over the River.’” Her thumbs traced his cheeks. Yeah, he remembered doing that. Rex hadn’t stopped with the stupid “stuffing the turkey” jokes all night long.

He felt his head dip, although he had no idea if she was pulling him or if he was doing it himself.

“And before that—”

He kissed her before he could stop himself. His tongue hit her lips, and she opened for him. Lemons. She tasted like lemonade, sweet and tart and just right. She made a small mewing sound in his mouth, a sound of surrender.

Somehow, he managed to break away from her. He had to, before he did something vulgar like have sex with a woman he barely knew in a closet in a bar.

“I didn’t know.” Her voice shook this time. “I should have guessed—the way you drummed the desk with that pen—but I didn’t recognize you. You always wear the sunglasses and the bandanna…. I didn’t know it was you.”

He kissed her again, rougher this time. His teeth nipped at her lower lip before his tongue tangled with hers. He shouldn’t believe her, but he wanted to, more than he’d wanted anything else. He wanted to believe that this beautiful, intelligent woman liked his music without wanting anything else from him. That she might like him without wanting shop equipment or school supplies or anything.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. He felt her stiff nipples press against his chest, felt the heat when she tilted her hips up into his. God, she really wanted him, as much as he wanted her.

He wanted to believe her.

But he couldn’t.

He shoved himself away with everything he had. He sucked in air—which didn’t help, because her scent hung around him. Her chest—in all its glory—was heaving, a sight he’d love to behold any other day. He swiped his hand across his mouth in a desperate attempt to erase her sweetness. Mistake. He’d made a mistake, but he couldn’t tell who he was madder with—her, or himself. “Does that work?” he demanded.

“Does what work?” She had the damn nerve to look innocent and confused.

“That—using sex to trap me.” And he’d fallen right into it. Damn it, skin-to-skin contact was a major mistake. “Does that get you what you want?”

He braced himself for the crack across the face—he expected nothing less than outright condemnation and denial from her—but she didn’t smack him. Instead, a look of pain crossed her face for a second before it disappeared underneath something else. Something sad, which made him feel like the world’s biggest jerk. “You already said no—I wasn’t—”

Her eyes skimmed over his arms—and found his tats. Damn sleeveless T-shirts, he cursed silently. She could see the one that had Mom’s birth—and death—date. He thought about turning the other way, but that would be worse, because then she’d see the one for Moose, his dog. He crossed his arms and gave her his meanest stare. She didn’t even blink.

For a blinding second, he hated her—the way she seemed to look right into him, the way she made him feel like hell for being a jerk, the way she had the nerve to feel bad for him—he hated all of it.

When the hell would this break end? If he didn’t start beating his drums again right now, he was going to have to punch a wall or something.

Then she did something even weirder. She came to him, touched his tats and whispered, “I’m sorry.” And then she kissed him. After he’d all but called her a slut to her face, she kissed him—again.

This was different—softer, easier. Against his will, his arms uncrossed and then folded again, with her inside them. Her weight was warm and comfortable against his chest. She fit well there.

Something strange happened. The solitary quiet he usually felt when he thought about Mom seemed less solitary. It almost seemed like Josey White Plume understood how alone he felt surrounded by his brothers, how hard it was to always have to be the responsible one, how exhausting the daily battle with his father was, how damn tired he was of not being good enough. She understood it all and was happy to take some of the burden off his shoulders.

She broke the kiss and rested her forehead against him. Oddly, that was almost as good as the kiss. Forget the last time he’d gotten laid. When was the last time he’d held a woman—without feeling like she wanted something from him?

Josey’s chest rose and fell against his, strong and steady. Her arms were around his neck, holding their bodies together. For some stupid reason that should have everything to do with his groin but didn’t, Ben would have been happy to stand here and hold her all night long.

He didn’t get the chance. Right then, someone began to pound on the door.

“Benny! Zip it up, kick the chick out and let’s rock!”

Josey jolted, and Ben was forced to let her go. She straightened her top, shook her hair out and licked her lips. Could she still taste him, like he could taste her?

“I came for the music,” she said, her voice reaching his ears over the pounding on the door. “No strings attached.”

“No strings attached,” he agreed. So why did it feel like she’d just bound part of her to part of him?

The band continued banging on the door like it was a secondhand drum set. He didn’t need his spine rearranged, so he got out of the way.

Toadie, Stick and Rex fell into the room. Rex was giggling—a sure sign that he was happily on his way to roaring drunk. When they caught sight of Josey, the merry band of idiots came to a screeching halt. Toadie was the first to make his move. “Holding out on us, Benny? Or were you planning on sharing?”

Ben’s thoughts went in two directions. One part of him wondered how many shots they had done and if they would be able to get through the next set before Rex passed out on the floor.

The other part of him got real pissed, real fast. He wasn’t about to let these jerk-offs call her character into question—never mind that he’d just done the very same thing. Whether she was conniving or innocent, Josey White Plume was no floozy, happy to let any slimeball do shots off her boobs. He’d be damned if he let these morons drool all over her. She deserved better than that.

Rex punched Toadie in the arm and stepped up. “Ma’am, ignore the cretin,” he said, doffing an imaginary hat and mispronouncing cretin. “And, if I may be so bold, may I suggest joining me after the show’s over? You are clearly way, way out of Benny’s league. Stick with me, and I’ll show you what a real man can do.”

The next thing Ben knew, he was shoving Rex, and Rex was shoving back. Stick tried to grab Ben, and Toadie made a halfhearted effort to hold Rex, but Ben didn’t care. Rex wanted a fight? Fine. Ben would enjoy beating the living hell out of him.

He didn’t have to. Instead of ducking for cover, Josey stepped between him and Rex. She looked the singer up and down, shaking her head with distaste. She turned back to him and smiled—whoa. How could a woman look so fiery and so innocent at the same time?

“Thanks for the offer, but I prefer drummers.”

So hot, he thought as she stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips over his. The guys began catcalling behind them, but Ben didn’t give a damn. He just wanted to remember this moment, this feeling of no strings attached.

She started to pull away, but he grabbed her around the waist. “I’ll find you after the show.”

“Are you guys going on or what?” The bar’s manager stuck his peevish head through the door. “It’s getting ugly out here.”

With the door open, Ben could hear the riot about to break out in the bar. Josey slipped from his arms and finally he got to appreciate the sight of Josey White Plume walking away.

Rex looked like he was going to pop an O-ring laughing. “Not a word,” Ben said, cracking the knuckles on each hand with his thumb—a trick he’d learned from Dad, one that was pretty effective when a guy was trying to look menacing. “Not one stinking word.”

Toadie made the motion to lock his mouth and throw away the key, but Rex still looked like he wanted to go a round or two.

“Get on the damn stage!” the manager shouted over the shattering sound of glass.

Right. That’s what they were here for—the music. The only thing that had never let Ben down and never demanded something he couldn’t give.

Through the rest of the next set, he kept searching the crowd for Josey. The feeling of her lips against his stayed with him, song after song. He caught sight of her a few times—the sequins on her shirt gave her a glow that stood out in the smoky bar—but then the crowd would shift and he’d lose her again.

Rex split as soon as the gig was up; Toadie took his amp and bailed, too. Normally, Ben was in charge of getting their equipment out of the bar in one piece. Not tonight. He shot Stick a look and headed out to find Josey. No-strings-attached sex could be amazing sex, and maybe if he had some amazing sex, he’d be able to get her out of his head.

She wasn’t in the bar; no sign of her in the parking lot. He even had a waitress check the bathroom—nothing.

Gone.

Where the hell did she go?

Josey rested her head on the steering wheel, waiting for her mind to clear. The intersection was empty at this ungodly hour of the morning, so she was able to think without being honked at. Thankfully, Jenny had cut out early—something about midnight being past her bedtime—so Josey could think without being judged.

Which way should she go?

If she went right, she’d be within the city limits of Rapid City inside of ten minutes. Another fifteen until she got to the gentrifying, hip downtown neighborhood where her apartment was above an upscale children’s boutique. It was a nice place—a small studio, but one where the heat and plumbing always worked and she could watch TV while surfing the internet. All the conveniences of modern life—conveniences she’d become accustomed to while going to school out East and living as a mostly white woman—were at her fingertips when she was at her apartment.

If she turned right, she’d sleep late, grab a cappuccino and a croissant from the Apollo Coffee Co. down the street and do some work. She’d send a few follow-up emails to sponsors, do a little research into other possible donors.

If she turned right, things would be quiet. Calm.

Lonely.

If she went left, though, she’d get onto Highway 90. In five minutes, Rapid City would be nothing but a glow in her rearview mirror. In twenty minutes, she’d hit the edge of the rez, and in forty-five minutes, she’d be at her mom’s double-wide trailer. She’d try to be quiet when she got in, but Mom would wake up anyway. She’d say, “Oh, Josey, I’m glad you’re home,” the same thing she said every single time Josey came over. It didn’t matter if she was visiting for lunch, staying for the weekend or just showing up, Mom was always glad she was home. Then Mom would touch the picture of Dad she kept on top of the TV and shuffle back to bed.

If Josey turned left, she’d make her own tea in the morning and eat a knockoff brand of cereal for breakfast. She’d spend the next several days working on the school. Her back would try to kill her, her manicure would be shot to heck and she’d be face-to-face with the unavoidable fact that the school—the legacy her grandfather left her to complete—would not be ready for the grand opening and some members of the tribe would hold that against her. Things would be crazy. Messy. Unfinished.

Just like things with Ben were unfinished. If she turned around, she’d be back at the bar in less than five minutes. She could find Ben, pick up where she’d left off—God help her, she had no idea a man could kiss like that—and then …

No. She couldn’t go back. She’d done the correct thing, leaving the bar before the last set had ended. Correct, because Ben Bolton wasn’t arrogant, domineering and heartless like she’d first thought. Well, maybe he was all of those things, but underneath that, there was more to him—something lost, something lonely. Something that didn’t fit, no matter how hard he tried. That was the something Josey recognized.

Ben Bolton was a dangerous man because he was someone she could care for.

She couldn’t let herself get involved with him. It didn’t matter how good the kiss had been. The last time she’d followed her heart instead of her head, she’d gotten it trampled into small, unrecognizable bits. Plus, a lot of people on the rez didn’t look kindly upon interracial dating. She’d worked so hard for so long, trying to prove her bona fides to the tribe. No white man, not even Ben Bolton, was worth risking that kind of pain.

A horn honked behind her, startling her out of her thoughts.

Left or right?

The horn blared, the driver’s impatience obvious.

Josey turned left.