I tilt my face towards Caleb, not taking my eyes off her. “Be right back.”
“Sure, man.”
I walk towards her, afraid she’ll disappear if I blink. She doesn’t notice me until I’m at her table. Her chocolate brown eyes go wide, and her lips part.
“Haven’t we met before?”
She shuts her gaping mouth and throws back her shoulders. The side of her mouth lifts, and her eyes sparkle. “Yeah, I work at the VD clinic.”
The waitress coughs to muffle her laugh.
Layla. The woman is an enigma. Fierce in one breath, shy in the next. Timid yet confident. A pint-sized package, she spews attitude like a pro. But now she’s fucking with the master.
“Mouse.”
She sits up tall, something I’ve noticed she does often, probably trying to make her five-foot-nothing frame look intimidating. “Snake.”
“I’ve never seen a woman come back from a Blake come-on,” Mac, the waitress, says with a laugh.
Layla’s eyes narrow. “You two know each other?”
Mac smiles and rocks her shoulder into my arm. “Yep. All the UFL boys come in here when Ataxia plays.” She looks at me. “I’m going to get Layla’s drink. You want anything?”
“No. I’m good.”
“Cool. Be right back.” She grabs her tray and scurries off.
Layla drops her head and uses her short straw to play with the ice in her empty glass. “Shouldn’t be surprised.” Her words are mumbled beneath her breath.
“Surprised by what?”
Her gaze darts to mine. Yeah, Mouse. I heard you.
I pull out the chair next to her and notice her skin-tight jeans and black high-heel shoes before I sit. Damn. I’d give anything to watch her walk away in this get-up.
“Oh please, have a seat why don’t you.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms at her ribs. A mistake she’s made before.
My eyes drift down the length of her hair to her perfectly pert breasts.
“Do you mind?” She hooks her fingers beneath my chin, pulling up gently. “My eyes are up here.”
“Not looking at your eyes.”
“No shit.” Her sarcasm is thick and makes me grin.
I bite my lip to avoid giving away the fact that I find her big attitude a total turn on.
“What do you want, Blake? You obviously came over here for a reason.”
Fuck. Why did I come over here? This girl is not my typical lay. Granted, she’s hot as hell, but I can see that the baggage she carries runs deep. I can tell by the way her carefree smile disappears the second a man walks into the room. The way shadows move over her features when I flirt. She’s been hurt by someone—my guess is badly. And the last thing I need is to be picking up the pieces of some other guy’s mess.
“Wanted to see what you thought of the show.”
She blinks, surprised maybe? “Oh. Um… I think they’re really good. I liked the three-part harmony on that last song they played.”
Three-part harmony? “You like music?”
She shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”
“Favorite band?”
Her eyes drop to her lap then move to the stage. “I like rock.” I watch her hand glide through the silky waves of her long hair. Her fingers sift in and pull out a small section, which she twirls in rhythmic rolls around her forefinger. “Older stuff.”
I’m transfixed by her hair twisting, and for a second I wonder what it must feel like. My mind imagines its satiny waves brushing against my stomach, teasing my skin as it trails down to—
“Metallica.”
Say what? “You’re kidding.”
Her bow-shaped lips break into smile. “No. Their Black album is a classic. Their best work, hands down.”
She did not just say that. Can’t blame the girl for not knowing she’s walking into massacre. “No way.” I shake my head. “And Justice for All is their best album. No comparison.”
She slams her palms to the table. “Bullshit! You can’t deny the musical magic that is ‘Enter Sandman’.”
“Metal fans everywhere just dropped dead.”
Her dark brown eyes grow even bigger. “‘Nothing Else Matters’ was groundbreaking for the metal world. The Black album single-handedly brought metal mainstream.” Her voice ends with a high pitch of frustration.
“Mainstream? That shit’s baby metal compared to a song like ‘Blackened’. Lars changes meter like five times in that song. It’s metal perfection.” I shrug, knowing I won that debate. No one can argue Lars Ulrich isn’t a percussion god.
“Three words, Daniels.” She holds up her hand and wiggles three fingers. “‘Through the Never.’” She raises one eyebrow along with one side of her mouth.
Touché. The girl knows her music.
I turn my chair toward her and lean in for the kill. “All right. Finish this sentence, Mouse. Metallica is…?”
“Easy.” She rests her elbow on the table, bending forward so that her delicate vanilla scent penetrates my senses. “James Hetfield.”
Blinking, I clear my head and then fall back into my chair, rubbing my eyes. “No, you’re so wrong. Lars Ulrich’s drumming is the fuckin’ glue that holds that band together.”
She shakes her head, making her hair dance around her shoulders. “You’re insane if you think Hetfield isn’t the heart and soul of Metallica. You wouldn’t even have And Justice for All if it weren’t for him, and you know it.”
“The hell I do.” The grin on my face makes my cheeks ache. When was the last time I’ve been this open?
The light sound of her laughter envelops me. This chick is crazy. Fun, but crazy.
“Here ya go, Layla,” Mac says as she puts a clear drink on the table. “You sure you’re cool, Blake?”
“Yeah, babe.”
I’m still stuck in the fuzzy bubble Layla and I created through our mutual love of Metallica, so I don’t notice the change in her expression until I look for it. Her eyes are shadowed and cold. She’s not smiling anymore, and her jaw is firm, her chin raised.
What the hell? I look around then back at her. What’d I miss?
She takes a sip of her drink, and as she wraps her lips around the cocktail straw, I notice that her upper lip is plumper than her lower one. I wonder if her mouth tastes as sweet as she smells. If her lips are as soft as they look.
“Stop it.” Her deep dark eyes meet mine. “I don’t like it when you do that.”
I’m still recovering from the whiplash of her mood swing. “Do what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to add me to your list of available vaginas.”
I check over my left shoulder, then my right. “You’re talking to me, right?” I point to my chest and decide I’m not at all happy with her accusation.
“Of course I’m—”
“Just wanted to make sure you were talking to me. Because now that I know you were talking to me,” I point to my chest, “I can tell you that you’re fucking crazy.”
Her mouth drops open then slams shut. “Oh puleaze. I caught you staring at my boobs.”
“You think a man stares at your boobs, it means he wants to fuck you? You’re wrong.”
And to think I actually considered it. This is exactly why I don’t date chicks with issues. It’s like walking a minefield. You take one step out of line, and all their baggage comes flying out in a flurry of shit talk. Fuck this.
“Right. Just like dear sweet Mac over there.” She tilts her head toward Mac at the bar. “I’m sure she thought you were charming and good looking. Now she’s nothing more than a goopy condom in your trashcan. You good-looking guys are all the same. Burning through women, caring about nothing except who to stick your dick in next.”