A few moments later, another phone started buzzing in the bunk. She jumped and looked around for it. The inconspicuous wall mount held a phone so slim, she hadn’t seen it until she was lying down in the bunk.
“Hello?”
“What are you wearing?” Syon drawled on the other end of the line.
She laughed. “What are you wearing, pretty ginger lady?” he rasped out again before she could answer. The space between them suddenly empowered her, because he was too far away to overwhelm her.
“A silk corset and a short, flared skirt with a garter belt and hose.”
“Hmmm…panties?” He sounded like he was smacking his lips.
Danger…danger…
The warning went unheeded. Syon was sucking her back into that vortex of insanity.
“No panties, ’cause it’s an all-girl zone.”
There was a groan on the other end of the line. “I guess I started it,” Syon came back at her after a long pause. “We’re stopping for fuel and grub, if you go for fast food.”
“No thanks. I want to live past fifty.”
“There’s fresh stuff in the fridge.” Syon stopped for a moment, and she got the feeling there was something else on his mind.
“And?” she pressed.
“There’s going to be a couple of the crew guys standing by the door. Fans can get a little crazy. The guys are there to protect you, but they’re packing heat, legally. So don’t flip out if you see a piece.”
“Worried I might jump a Greyhound bus back to Los Angeles?” she asked.
“Are you thinking you might regret it if you did?” Syon countered.
Her mind froze for a moment, heat licking at her insides. His tone had dropped to that husky one he used when he was burying his head in her hair. A tingle went across her skin at just the memory.
“Touché,” she muttered, feeling awkward.
“We’ll roll into the Bay Area around ten. Want to go for a ride with me?”
“Are you asking me on a date?” She toyed with a lock of her hair, feeling as breathless and awkward as a seventeen-year-old.
“Are you surprised?”
She clicked her tongue at him. “You keep answering questions with questions.”
“You’re the one with a rule about dating rock stars,” he answered smoothly. “I’m searching for a loophole. Is a ride on the back of my Harley a date?”
Oh hell, she’d forgotten about the Harley.
“Okay, I’m feeling mildly guilty about telling you rule number two. It might also be—only a slight possibility, mind you—discriminatory.”
“And totally fucking unfair to me,” he hammered home. “You’re rock star–phobic.”
“In my defense, rule number two was made after dealings with several of your colleagues who thought fittings included bedside service,” Kate said.
“I waited until I was down to my last pair of pants before calling a costumer in, because I’m sick of getting my package grabbed during fittings,” he responded.
Touché, again.
And she was starting to like the guy.
“You don’t back off, do you?”
There was a very male sounding grunt on the other end of the line. “You don’t want me to, Kate.”
“You’re arrogant,” she said, stating the obvious. “Presumptuous.”
“I’m taking command of the situation,” he countered. “Don’t worry, I’ve been trained.”
“I notice you aren’t arguing with the arrogant charge.”
“You’re as turned on as I am.”
“That might not be a good thing.” As in epic crash and burn on the horizon.
He took a moment to reply. “It might be an explosive thing. Only one way to find out. Take a ride with me.”
He was arrogant, but there was something sexy about it. They had more in common than she’d realized.
She felt the coach slowing down as it exited the interstate. “You’re on.”
You’re a lunatic…
“Cool.”
Kate replaced the slim phone on the wall mount and worried her lower lip for a moment.
A date.
She was so screwed.
And too damned giddy about it.
* * *
Showering while rolling down the freeway was going to take a little practice.
Kate yelped as she cut herself with the razor because she’d lost her balance and twisted it.
She knocked her head on the upper bunk when she laid her suitcase out in the lower one and tried to find a matching outfit. Everything was a huge mess, because she’d just thrown things indiscriminately into the case. By the time she got dressed, she was flustered and growling.
At that point they were pulling into the city of Oakland, winding their way through industrial sections of town. Kate saw the concert center in the distance and hurried back to flip her case closed and zip it up. The driver of Kate’s coach rolled up behind the semis into the loading area of the Oracle Arena. Air brakes hissed, echoing off the concrete. A loud whoop came from behind Kate as the band spilled out of their mobile music coach, like kids hearing a recess bell.
The sun had set several hours ago, but huge floodlights illuminated the loading docks. Even at ten at night, teams of dockworkers converged on the semis. Up on the docks, there were supervisors with tablets, holding black radios up to their ears. The backs of the trucks were opened, and cases marked with “Toxsin” were being wheeled inside as team leaders barked orders.
“You really had the corset on?” Kate turned to see Syon coming up behind her.
Syon was staring at her cleavage. There was only a small slice of it on display, because she’d put on a summer cotton top beneath her blouse to act as a chemise. The low, rounded, country girl neckline hugged the tops of her breasts.
“I prefer a corset over a bra any day.”
“Your rules suck, but that look rocks,” Ramsey hollered on his way over to one of the semis that wasn’t backed into the loading docks.
The rest of the band members glanced over at her, curious. A few low whistles came her way, and Syon flipped off the lot of them.
Taz hopped up on a loading ramp attached to the rear of one of the semis. When the lift reached the top, he stepped into the truck and rolled out a shiny mass of black paint and chrome before hitting the button to lower the lift to the ground.
“You guys carry your bikes?”
“Yeah. Beats paying someone else to run up the mileage on them.” Syon stepped up closer. “Besides, a wise man never goes on tour without an escape plan.”
Syon moved off toward the gate of the semi. As soon as Drake pulled up with his bike, Kate watched Syon jump onto the tailgate ramp.
Leather on that man should have been outlawed. His ass looked damn good in a pair of leather pants.
He’d put on a dark green T-shirt that complemented his eyes. When he came out of the truck, he was rolling another black-and-chrome creation that made her heart race.
On cue, one of the crew members rolled a large black case over to Syon and flipped up the lid. Syon reached down, pulled a leather jacket from it, and shrugged into it. He pulled another one up and whistled at Kate before tossing it to her.
She caught it, the scent of leather filling her nose. Another whistle and a pair of gloves came her way. Kate flexed her fingers into the gloves and noticed there was now a row of Harleys, parked in a neat line as the band members slipped into jackets, gloves, and helmets.
Syon brought her a helmet.
“You weren’t kidding me about EOD.” She took the helmet from him.
“What brought that comment up?” he asked.
She nodded toward the bikes. “I never would have thought a heavy metal rock band could be capable of such a precision exercise.”
“Still can’t imagine me with any sort of self-discipline?”
Kate locked gazes with him. “That’s a little harsh. I’m not that judgmental.”
He looked down at the cleavage peeking through the open front of her leather jacket. “With you, it might just be an accurate account. I’m guilty of losing my perspective due to distractions.” His gaze lingered on her cleavage for a long moment.