Playing Dirty (Stargazer #2)(8)
Author: Jennifer Echols

“Yes, we did,” Owen said.

With one carefully manicured fingernail, Sarah thunked a firefly off her bare shoulder. “Of course, Rachel cares too much about you to cross you, with or without a waiver. I’m surprised the two of you aren’t tighter, Martin. I know you’re not dating anymore, but she wouldn’t tell me why, almost like it’s a big secret.”

“There’s no secret,” Erin said, patting Martin’s hand protectively. “They just don’t want to talk about it with a stranger.”

Maybe Erin didn’t know the secret, either. But Sarah saw the panicked look Martin shot Quentin. Quentin didn’t return the look. He was either too smart to react and give away whatever the secret was, or too stupid to know there was a problem.

Sarah suspected the latter. As Quentin picked up his cards, he asked her, “How d’you like the big ol’ salty ’Ham?” He spoke in a thick Southern drawl similar to her mother’s, but without the class.

“You mean your lovely little town?” Sarah sipped her delicious margarita. Mmmmm. “I can stand the heat.” She looked at her cards. Nothing. She threw away three and asked Quentin to deal her three more. Still nothing. Erin, Owen, and Martin folded. Sarah raised.

Now Quentin stared her down, trying to decide whether she was bluffing. She met his gaze and got the chance to study him in person for the first time. His T-shirt was printed with a fire-breathing dragon, the mascot for the local university. Some people were fans of a college’s athletic teams without ever attending school, she supposed. The shirt was so well loved that a layer of faded white fuzz showed on top of the green material. His eyes had looked intense on the album cover, but against this shirt, in only the weak floodlights from the mansion now that the sun had set, she could have sworn his eyes were dark green, like a Southern pine forest. With the alcohol massaging her skin and this handsome hick speeding up her heartbeat, she liked her job a lot more than she had for the past nine months.

“Call,” he said, throwing in his chips. “Let me see them.” This must have been an inside joke because, inexplicably, Erin slapped his shoulder.

Sarah turned up her cards, and he turned up his. Drat, he’d won. She wished she’d won the first hand, setting the tone for her relationship with the band. No matter, though. She’d be winning before they were through.

Quentin raked the chips toward himself and winked at her. “Good start. I wonder how many clothes I’ll get off you by the end of the night.”

She smiled. She knew he was a cocaine addict from the country. The stars who’d never had money were the ones who got into the most trouble when they suddenly made it big. And he was flirting with her to get even with Erin. Erin took him back again and again, and would again, as soon as she tired of Owen. If the band didn’t break up first.

But Quentin had an infectious pleasantness about him. Even now, as he half propositioned Sarah, he didn’t gaze at her in narrow-eyed lechery. His face was open and friendly and focused, and he looked absolutely delighted to be sitting next to her. She almost wouldn’t mind losing this game to him.

Almost. Soon it was her turn to deal, and she enjoyed the Cheatin’ Hearts’ stares again as she flipped the cards expertly. She’d played quite a bit of poker in her career as babysitter to the stars, and she was the daughter of bridge players. Before long, Martin’s socks, Owen’s shoes, and Erin’s ponytail holder were bobbing in the pool, and Sarah hadn’t lost so much as an earring. Quentin hadn’t lost any clothes, either, but now Sarah had most of the chips.

They were an easy take. Erin kept asking Owen what to do. She was either a novice or a coquette. She also pretended to be more drunk than she was. In fact, Sarah wasn’t sure Erin was drinking at all. She put her margarita to her lips occasionally, but the level in the glass never changed. Owen was constantly distracted by Erin. His eyes slid to her after every play.

Martin did seem to make an effort at winning hands, and his face fell every time he lost. Sarah wondered again about the long-sleeved shirt he still wore in the oppressively hot night. He was awfully thin, too. She’d seen every bit of his well-formed posterior on the cover of Ass Backwards, and he’d probably lost twenty pounds since that photo shoot.

And then there was Quentin, who seemed considerably more drunk than the other three. As the night went on, he paused longer and longer before making decisions, as if his already slow brain was slowing more.

Finally, Erin called for a bathroom break. Owen followed her inside the mansion. After the door closed, Quentin said smoothly, “So, Susan,” grabbing both Sarah’s wrists in his big hands.

“Sarah,” she corrected him, trying to conceal her disappointment that he’d forgotten her name. Of course he was just another drugged-up singing star, but she was crushing hard on him by now. She twisted her wrists in his grasp gently to extricate herself without causing a fuss.

He let her go and settled for holding her hand loosely on her knee, his fingers always moving, rubbing up and down her fingers and circling on her palm. Electricity shot up her arm. “What’s your favorite Cheatin’ Hearts song?” he asked her.

“You want me to name one you wrote,” she said coyly.

He kept drilling his dark green eyes into her and electrifying the palm of her hand.

She was enjoying him a bit too much. She could hold her liquor, but that margarita was clouding her judgment, if flirting with this out-of-control celebrity seemed like a good idea. The time had arrived to back him off. She said, “ ‘Come to Find Out’ is pretty amusing. It’s unusual to hear a country song about backdoor action.” When he gave her a confused look, she prompted him, “ ‘Come to find out I got screwed in the end’?”

He let her go in surprise. “I never thought about it that way,” he said slowly.

Now Sarah missed the constant tease of his hand on her hand. She knew she was feeling the margarita, but she couldn’t stop herself. She hadn’t had this much fun in a long while. She baited him, “Do you come up with your album titles and covers? Are you an ass man? Because that seems to be a recurring theme.”

“I am now.” His gaze flicked down to the region of her thigh. He cocked his head to let her know he was considering her bottom. Then his gaze returned to her face.

“Good God,” Martin grumbled. “I have to be more drunk than this before I like to watch.” He poured himself a margarita out of the pitcher.