“Sorry,KJ. There’s no way Patrick Kinney is flirting with you. I don’t think there’sever been a more committed man in the fucking universe,” I said, not includingmy heart in the equation.
Outnumbered,Kylie pursed her lips, putting the subject to rest as she went about herbusiness of stocking cups and napkins, refilling sugar shakers and milkcanteens. She was getting ready forWind Down Wednesday with Devin O’Leary,and I smirked to myself again at the name she had given my show.
Theoriginal plan was to serve wine and call itWineDown Wednesday—ha,ha—but we never bothered to obtain the liquor license required.
“So,ladies, I guess I’ll just be going upstairs to change,” I said, dismissingmyself as the two of them worked.
“Or,you know, you could just strip right here. You’re easy like that, right?”Brooke teased with a mocking glare. “Ky? What do you think? We could throw onsome Backstreet Boys, get him—”
“Whoa,”I said, putting a stop to that suggestion with the raising of my hands. “Wait aminute. I’m not opposed to putting on a show, but if I’m stripping, it’s notgoing to be to the fuckingBackstreet Boys. I need something like, uh …Kylie, help me out here.”
Sheglanced up from piling Sweet & Low packets into their cannister and pursedher lips. “Hmmm …” Her enchanting blue eyes narrowed, taking me in as she dugher teeth into her full bottom lip. My gaze dropped to thatlip,andimagined it between my own teeth. “I’d probably go for somethingsexy with an edge. Like, uh … ‘Closer’ by Nine Inch Nails.”
“Sexywith an edge?” I laughed, bringing myself to look back to her eyes. “God, youknow me so well. I could definitely rock that.”
“Yeah,except you’re not rocking anything,” she backpedaled. “You can get changedupstairs.”
Brookepouted. “You’re such a killjoy.”
“Hisego is big enough,” Kylie responded, never taking her eyes off me.
Ilaughed as I winked at her and grabbed my duffel bag from the floor and crossedthe room to the stairs.
Thestaircase held a whimsical flair—black, wooden, and spiral. It was what Iimmediately fell in love with, when I first laid eyes on the place, and therest of the pieces came together naturally. Kylie had lit the stairs up withfairy lights wrapped around the bannister, giving the old world charm a newedge vibe, and it suited the place perfectly.
Irounded my way up to land in the upstairs loft. Kylie kept a couch up here, abig wooden desk, and a few bookshelves for her files and things I keep my noseout of. The railing overlooks the shop, and when it got too crowded downstairs,she allows customers to overtake the upstairs too.
WheneverI play at B&B, I liked to give people the impression that I amsomeone.“Fake it ‘til you make it,” my grandfather always told me, and I keep thephrase tacked to my heart. I held tight to it, living by it, with my bandt-shirts, combat boots and well-fitted jeans. The leather jacket I wear tocomplete the ensemble, had once belonged to my grandpa. He took it on the roadwith him, in his heyday as a successful musician, until he married mygrandmother and hung it up to have a family. I love the history that jackethold, and for as long as I’d had it in my possession, I hoped to add some of myown to it.
Sofar, that history had extended to Black & Brewed, and stopped.
Therewere footsteps on the stairs as I pulled the worn Nirvana t-shirt over my head.I knew the footfalls belonged to Kylie, they were a permanent impression on mymind, and I glanced over my shoulder as she stopped at the top of the steps.
“What’sup?” I asked, shaking out theRed HotChili Peppersshirt I brought to wear that night.
“Brookeis running down to the diner to grab some dinner. You want anything?”
Iturned around to faceher, andthought for a moment asI slipped my arms through the short sleeves of the shirt. I caught the smirk onKylie’s lips and quirked a brow in question. “What?”
Shesucked on her teeth and shook her head. “Oh, nothing,” she said, pulling herlips back into the little smile that never ceased to drive me crazy. She grabbedher phone from her pocket, tapped over the screen and within moments, theopening notes to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails were coming through the speakers.The voice of Trent Reznor filtered through the loft, and I rolled my eyes witha biting grin at the dirty song. “Well, if you’re going to put on a show, youmight as well do it right.”
“Yousaid I wasn’t allowed to put on a show,” I retorted, hitting her with theflirtatious tension we’d both grown so accustomed to.
“MaybeI wanted it for my eyes only,” she threw back, teasing and biting her lip.
“I’mnot stripping for you,” I said, my voice hard and sincere, but I was a liar.
Withtantalizing intent, I let the t-shirt slide from my arms, allowing it to danglefrom my fingers before dropping it to the floor. My eyes were fixed on her faceand her resolve to not react as I gripped my hair with one hand and moved theother over my stomach to the waistband of my threadbare jeans. Slowly, I workedthe zipper down, rolling my hips seductively in time with the music. I let thefly fall open, let the jeans droop on my hips, and I took a step forward. Totest her. To watch her lips part. To see her pulse flutter at the base of herthroat. And then, I stopped and bent over to pick up my shirt.
Pointinga finger at her, I said, “That’s all you’re getting out of me. I’m not a pieceof meat you can just snap your fingers at.”
“ButI snap them at you all the time,” she countered, her breath noticeably labored.
“Notfor your own entertainment,” I shot back with a laugh, and she sighed.
“Fine,”she said, grinning and turning the music off. “What do you want to eat?”
“Hamburger.Pickles. Fries.” I enunciated every word, marking them off on my fingers.
