There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(42)
Author: M. Leighton

It’s all I can do to hold my tongue. What the hell kind of an ass**le would hit on Violet when she’s clearly with me?

“Oh gosh no! I’m too short to model, but I appreciate the compliment,” Violet replies.

“Even without the height, your face and your figure are so beautiful, so perfectly proportioned, any man in his right mind would snatch you up. I mean any business,” he says with a wink and a laugh.

Violet laughs, too, and it kills me to see her cheeks bloom with color. It eats at me that anyone else can make her blush, much less this useless douche.

“Violet is a social worker. She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met,” I interrupt, regaining Violet’s attention and hoping that Rand will shut his mouth before I have to shut it for him. No doubt that would totally blow my chance of giving my songs a shot at the big time. I raise her hand to my lips, brushing them over her knuckles.

Her eyes take on a sharp, confused look that I ignore. She might not get what’s going on, but I sure as hell do. And I don’t like it one bit.

“Well, it’s our pleasure to have you, Violet. Can I offer you a drink or an appetizer?” Paul, the most important of the three execs, asks. I’m relieved to see him taking over the conversation.

“Thank you,” Violet says, reaching for a chicken firecracker to put on her bread plate. “I’d love a ginger ale.”

Paul nods, signaling the waitress who shows up within seconds, taking Violet’s drink order and returning with the soda a short time later.

I feel better about everything as the night wears on. Rand keeps his comments to himself, although it chaps my ass every time I look at him and he’s staring at Violet or smiling at her, trying to engage her. For the most part, though, the conversation stays firmly in the realm of business.

At one point, I see him at it again so I lean in closer to Violet, draping my arm over the back of her chair as I give Rand my biggest smile, all but daring him to take it one step further. He returns my tight smile and cocks one eyebrow at me. A challenge?

If it is, all I can say is that he’s on!

I nod at him, brushing my fingertips over Violet’s silky shoulder. I see Rand’s lips thin, and I have to fight the urge not to laugh in his smug face.

After Violet finishes her drink, when I assumed we’d be heading to the “private” room, Paul surprises me with his suggestion. “Since we’re all pretty comfortable, why don’t you just sing us a couple of your songs right here, Jet?”

I glance around the table, wondering if this was the plan all along, like a test. But I quickly discard the notion. There’s no reason for them to test me. This is about my songs, not about my ability to perform.

For that reason, I agree without hesitation. Not only do I not give a shit where they want me to sing, but at this point, I want to get this over with so I can get Violet the hell away from Rand.

I scoot back my chair and grab my guitar from under the table. I look around and see that there’s a booth behind us that’s empty. I get up and put my guitar case onto the table, take out my instrument, and then slide the case onto one of the padded seats. Turning to face Violet and the Kick execs, I lean against the edge of the table and pick out a few notes as I tune my guitar.

I sing “Every Time I Close My Eyes” first, a song I wrote three years ago. I believed in it then, but now? Now I love it even more. It takes on a whole new meaning since I met Violet. Just like the song suggests, she has gotten under my skin.

She didn’t do it on purpose, of course. She didn’t plan for me to need her like I do—to need to feel her body beneath mine, to need to taste her soft recesses, to need to be inside her more and more with every day that passes. It’s not her fault that I see her face every time I close my eyes. And it won’t be her fault when I dip my tongue into that hollow at the base of her throat tonight, and then lick every sensitive spot below it before the break of dawn. It’s just something I have to do now, consequences be damned.

When I finish it, Paul claps. “One more, Jet. Let’s hear something new and fresh.”

I had hoped to do a few and end with “Drowning,” but it looks like I won’t get that chance. I clear my throat and strum the strings, feeling the music all the way into my soul, just like I did when I wrote it.

And when I first sang it.

To Violet.

I look up to find her eyes on me. It’s as easy to sing it to her this time as it was the last. It comes to me like I’ve sang it a thousand times, the notes and the words as familiar to me as songs I’ve known for years. She watches me the whole time, never taking her eyes off of me. I know this because I never take my eyes off of her.

When I pick out the final three notes, letting the last one hang in the air until it fades completely, there’s absolute silence in the bar. For a few seconds, it’s like the world is breathing it in—my music, my words, my soul.

After that reverent pause, Paul starts to clap. Then others do, too. Quite a few others—people I hadn’t even been aware of before. But now, as I look around, I can see that I’ve drawn a small crowd.

I nod and smile, turning to pack up my guitar. When it’s lying safely against the velvet inside the case, I walk back to the table and sit back down beside Violet. I notice that she’s unnaturally stiff, but I can’t question her about it. Instead, I turn my attention to Paul. “So, what do you think?”

His smile is big and encouraging. “We’ll need to discuss it, of course, but I’m optimistic,” he says with a nod. “I’ll give you a call before you check out tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” I say, trying to be nonchalant, trying to hide the frustration that I feel.

More waiting.

“Maybe you two should spend the rest of the night out celebrating,” Paul adds, nodding to Violet. His grin is reassuring. And he used the word celebrate, which is encouraging as hell.

I nod, feeling better about things.

I turn to smile down at Violet, anxious to see the excitement in her eyes, but her head is tipped down. I watch her for several seconds, but she doesn’t glance up. She seems inordinately interested in the beads on her purse. “That sounds like a great idea.”

I run the backs of my fingers down her upper arm. I feel her flinch. It’s barely perceptible—certainly not visible—but I feel it nonetheless.

She doesn’t look at me when she says, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I need to run up to my room.”