Sweet Ache

Yet.

Then she gave me the chance, rabbiting down the hall to escape after displaying the tiny flash of emotion in her eyes that I didn’t have enough time to read. And I couldn’t resist, had to follow her even with the opportunity for the twins again—shit, with any of the females in that room—sitting right in front of me, because I want only her.

I wanted to ask her so many things, most important what the fuck she was doing with that guy, but there was no stopping me from sampling her mouth the minute I pressed up against that ridiculous body of hers. Fucking hell, the woman kisses with every part of herself, like an R&B song that demands you to think of making slow, sweet love to someone. The kind of sex you can’t shake long after the condom’s tied off and your sheets fall cold.

I groan, the sound lost in the noise of the club, as I think of how fucking hard she made me with that selfish desperation she responded with. Nothing wrong with a woman going for what she wants. Talk about adding to her sex appeal and then some.

Take me. The thought has been on constant repeat since our first kiss. Pathetic, maybe. A necessary one, definitely.

And of course to make matters worse, I had to leave the sweetness of her in the bathroom to go back and watch that fucker’s arm go around her. I’m not a possessive guy—shit, in my business chicks come and go in and out of our lives like on a constant lazy Susan—so it’s not a feeling I’m too familiar with.

I sure as shit felt her react, tasted the need in our kiss, heard the way she called out my name, so where the fuck is she? Rocker trumps racer every time. Hands down.

What is it about her that has me wanting more? Ice cream is ice cream, so you need to keep sampling flavors so you don’t get sick of the one you like the most, and yet she seems like a new flavor that I can’t get enough of.

Addictive and has me craving more each time I get a taste.

You’re so fucked in the head, I tell myself, comparing her to ice cream, all the while thinking of just where I want my tongue to lick her. Damn.

I lean forward and set my empty beer bottle down to pick up the glass where my Jack and Coke sits half gone. And fuck if I know what causes me to take note of my tats, the symbols telling the sordid story of my life when my shirt pulls up my bicep, but I do. To others they’re just permanent ink on my skin; to me they are symbolic of everything churning inside me, past and present. All of them have their meaning, all of them tell of my hurt, my heartbreak, my motivation to move forward, to prove that I’m worthy of the things he robbed me of.

I draw in a deep breath, and try to shake the memories, the images that have forever left their indelible mark in my mind. It must be the mixture of alcohol that has me so contemplative. Quinlan not showing up.

It’s all eating at me, spurring on the self-doubt that always lingers just beneath the surface. Singles hitting number one on the charts, more money than I can spend, fame … They do nothing to replace the emptiness or the need to prove to everyone that I’m worthy of it all. If I can’t win over the one girl I want, then I sure as fuck am not enough to save the two people left in my life.

Fuck this. I down the rest of the drink, resign myself to the thought that I’ll go find my own fun for the night. Get lost in someone else or call up the girls from earlier, I think I have their number somewhere. Fuck, or find a fangirl who’ll be thrilled to be with me so that I can close my eyes and think of Quinlan.

I toss back the shot of Jäger on the table in front of me and when I slam the glass back down, I resolve that I need to take this back to where it all started, get my head on straight and simplify the situation. This is a bet, a challenge. Nothing more. Nothing less. A bet I have to win because fuck if I’m getting a tattoo of a pink damn heart.

Vince plops down on the other end of the couch and jars me from the shit fucking up my head and just eyes me up and down. “She show?”

“Who?” I play dumb even though I know he can see right through it.

“Your only hope at not getting a pussy pink heart tattooed on that wrist of yours.” He throws his head back and laughs.

I’m about to tell him, fuck you, because hell no, I don’t want to lose the bet. Won’t lose. But immediately the thoughts about after I do sneak in, the ones that give possibility to the things I’ll never allow in my life because they’ll make you weak. Jesus Christ, I haven’t even fucked her. Talk about a pussy predicament. Griff from the D-Bags beats me to it. “Fuck you, Vinny boy. The only pussy pink my man, Hawkin, here wears is on his lips.”

I double over in laughter momentarily before I fist bump Griff. “Classic,” I tell him. “Hey, Kellan,” I say over his shoulder when I notice their band’s lead singer on the other side of him. “You guys heading out?”

“Pussies,” Vince mutters, making a show of checking his watch to tell them they’re leaving way too early in the night.

“Well, yeah, that’s next on my agenda,” Griff says, all four of us laughing. “And definitely in the plural sense too.”

“Early flight back to the tour,” Kellan explains as he shakes my hand. “Thanks for letting us play tonight. My best to your family.”

“Thanks for playing, man. Appreciate it!”

The guys finish saying good-bye to Vince and when they clear the space in front of us, I look up and my eyes lock on to Quinlan’s. Goddamn. She’s a few steps behind Luke, her hand’s in his, but he’s leading so she has the freedom to hold my stare.

And fuck the jolt that hits is like a live wire running rampant through my every nerve. It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time and shit, it’s not like she’s doing anything other than walking, but it’s as if she just made so many things that are off-kilter inside me even out.