His body is massive, and his rhythm is flawless, and when I occasionally look over my shoulder at him, his smile is a flash of white in the darkness, his eyes bright and golden.
We’ve been dancing for an eternity.
He presses warm soft lips to my ear. “Go somewhere with me, mama?”
I shake my head. Lift up, hand on his hard chest. “No, thank you. But I enjoyed dancing with you.”
He grins, shrugs. “A’ight.” He presses a kiss to my cheek. “Shame, though.” His eyes scan my body, a languid, obvious look. “You’re fine as hell, mama. I could make youscream.”
I blush, hope he can’t see it in the dark, shake my head again. “I’m just here to dance,” I manage, through a hot, hard knot pounding in my throat.
Mama.
That’s new. Andhot.
Gosh, I nearly reconsider at the look in his eyes. But I’m not ready for that. Also, I’m very, very, very drunk, and making decisions in this state seems impudent.
“I’m flattered,” I shout up at him.
He presses two fingers to his lips, blows me a kiss with them, and vanishes into the crowd.
A moment later, Angel has me in a screaming hug, jumping up and down like the Tar Heels just won the Big Ten and she had money on it. “Girl! You know who thatwas?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“That was Tate Massey!”
The name rings a bell, but I shrug because I don’t know who that is.
“He plays on the Chargers. He’s super famous. Like,superfamous. And you were dancing with him!”
“He asked if I’d go somewhere with him,” I admit.
“WHAT?” she shrieks. “And you’re still here?”
I shrug. “I’m not ready for that.”
She frowns. “Tate Massey, and you’re not ready.” She fans herself. “I’d about cheat on Miggy, for Tate freaking Massey.” She yanks me into a walk. “Come on, potty break.”
This is when disaster strikes.
We get separated by the crowd, and I get swept up in a conflagration of bodies all moving in one direction. I’m pushed around, shoved forward. Bump into a hard male body, look up, mouth open to apologize.
It’s Oscar Wendell—rock star of all rock stars, the kind of star that leaves crowds of women fainting.
He grins down at me, and he’s every inch the rock god the articles claim—dark eyes, guyliner that doesn’t come across as douchy or metro but rather intense and mysterious, long hair loose and wild and black and in his eyes, wearing leather pants and no shirt, tattoos strewn across his flesh.
“You in my posse?” he mutters down at me. His eyes skip from my eyes to my chest to my groin to my thighs, and back up,slowly.
“I…” That’s as far as I get.
His mouth slants across mine in a surprise kiss, tongue slashing in against mine. He tastes like liquor. “You are now,” he says.
And then his hard arm is around me, pushing me forward. Down a set of wide stairs. At the bottom, a steel door, the kind you see on a giant safe in a bank in heist movies. Two more men flank this door. More giants, dressed like the men outside. These two are not twins—one, however, is very obviously related to the two outside, having the same build, and jaw structure, although his hair is more coppery than blond; if they’re not triplets, they’re absolutely brothers. The other has blond hair too, but his is longish, curling around his collar, with a stubble-beard. He’s even more massive than the other man, but in a World’s Strongest Man kind of way. Instead of looking like a superhero, he looks like he could lift a Volvo over his head with one hand and not break a sweat.
Oscar approaches these bruisers casually. “Kane, Si, whatup, fellas.”
The leaner one lifts his chin. “Oscar.” He pulls a penlight from a pocket. “Gotta see it, man.”
