Raw Deal(8)

"God, you are so drunk," she scolded herself, throwing her phone aside. "Leave this man alone."

But she'd only lain there for two minutes before she picked it back up and impulsively called him back.

"Savannah?" he barked in answer. She couldn't help chuckling.

"I think that's adequate confirmation that you remember me."

That seemed to surprise him; he stumbled over his words for a few  seconds. "Well . . . yeah, of course I remember you, how the hell could I  not? Are you okay?"

Her eyes filled with tears. Drunk tears. Yay. She squeezed them shut against the deluge, spinning room be damned. "No."

"Jesus. What's wrong?"

"I'm gonna be an aunt." She fell silent and let him digest that for a  moment. He had enough of her family history to know what it meant.

"Jesus," he repeated. "Savannah . . ."

"I know," she said, her voice small. "I thought at first I would tell  you that to make you feel bad, but . . . now I realize that's awful of  me. It's not like there's anything you can do to make it better. So I  don't know why I'm telling you. Just to talk, I guess."

"Have you been drinking?"

Damn, here she'd thought she'd been somewhat coherent. "Um . . . yeah?"

"Are you safe?"

"I'm home in bed. Safe as can be, I guess."

He let out a breath that sounded like relief. "Good. You had me ready to hop a plane, girl."

Savannah's eyes opened in the dark. Her heart turned over in her chest.  "What?" No, no, no. You're not the knight, you can't be the knight. "You  wouldn't do that."

"Yeah? Try me. The least I can do for Tommy is look out for his little sister."

And her heart settled back into its normal rhythm. Of course, he feels  obligated, she thought. It had nothing to do with her. "Oh." She cringed  a little at how disappointed she sounded and quickly tried to remedy  it. "That's really not necessary."

"No, it isn't. But I would do it anyway."

"I only went out with a friend from work. She brought me home and put me  to bed." Tasha had even left her Advil and water on the nightstand, God  bless her. "It wasn't a very long trip, either, since I actually live  on Bourbon Street."

"You're shitting me," Mike said, and she chuckled. Most people were taken aback when they found out where she lived.

"Nope."

"How did you manage that?"

"My apartment is one of a four-plex in a gated historical building. A  friend of my family owns the building. When he mentioned a few years  back that he had a vacancy, I was feeling adventurous, so I jumped on  it."

"I bet that gets crazy at Mardi Gras."

"Oh, it's pretty crazy all the time. I can watch it all from my little balcony. I love it."                       
       
           



       

"Wow. What do you do for work, Savannah?"

She liked the way he said her name, but she cringed at the question.  "I'm a massage therapist." And she braced herself for the usual bullshit  guys spouted whenever she told them what she did for a living: How much  for a happy ending? Wanna practice on me? But who massages you? I bet I  could show you a thing or two . . . Ugh. One good thing about it was  that it was easy for her to weed out the creeps right away based on  their responses to her chosen profession.

Michael, however, only sounded impressed. "That's great. Do you like it?"

"I really do. It's nice helping people feel better when they're hurting, or helping them relax when they're stressed."

"Sometimes I swear my therapist is trying to kill me, but it's worth it  to actually feel human afterward." He had to go and say that. Had to go  and make her drunken mind conjure up images of getting all that muscle  under her kneading fingers, and that way lay disaster. "Do you have your  own place, or . . . ?"

"I work at a day spa. Not many athletes come through there."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I bet not."

"Though I have thought about striking out on my own. Tommy always told  me I should. He said I was wasted there. I was the only one who could  get rid of his trigger points."

The mention of her brother quelled the conversation for a moment. Then Mike said, "So how far along is your sister-in-law?"

"We're guessing a couple of months. You know, Rowan's parents died when  she was a teenager, one not long after the other. She met Tommy shortly  afterward, and he was a big help in getting her through it all. Now he's  gone, and I don't know what to do to make her feel better."

"Just be there for her."

"I am. We all are."

"Hey . . . well, never mind." He'd gone from sounding hopeful to dejected so fast she was intrigued.

"What? Seriously, I'm open to ideas. Any ideas."

"You said she was a fan of my brother's. What about getting her out of  town for a few days? He's still touring. I can get her all access to any  show she wants to see, no problem. We'll even fly her out."

Wow. She'd wanted to tell Rowan about Zane Larson being the dark mystery  guy standing behind Mike at the cemetery, but telling her that would  have involved admitting she'd talked to Mike again, when Rowan could  barely tolerate the mention of the guy's name. There had never been a  good time to drop that information on her, so Savannah simply let it  slide. Two weeks ago, the two of them had been driving to the mall when  August on Fire's latest hit single came on the radio. Rowan had turned  it up, her expression completely smoothing out. It was the closest thing  to bliss Savannah had seen on her face since Tommy's death, but still  she'd bit her tongue until it nearly bled. That peace on Rowan's face  had looked like a fragile thing, and one mention of Mike might have  shattered it.

"She would probably love that," she admitted to Mike now.

"Let me set it up, then," he said eagerly.

"Except that it would come from you." She clenched her eyes shut, hating  to say the words, to let him know just how much blame Rowan put on him.  "She doesn't even know I've talked to you again. If I tell her that . .  . I don't know. She won't take it well. She's really a sweet person,  she's just in a bad place."

"You don't have to explain."

"I feel like I do."

"The offer stands, so I'll leave it up to you. But Zane's only on tour a  few more weeks, then he'll be back in the studio with the band for a  while. She might not have another chance any time soon."

"I'll think about it."

"And she doesn't have to see me at all." After a beat, he added, "Both of you would be welcome, of course."

Rowan would make her come too, if this ever panned out. God, she was so  torn. On one hand, sure, Rowan might freak out knowing Savannah was  indulging in coffee and drunken late-night chats with Mike Larson behind  her back, and on the other, she might strangle her unconscious if she  learned she had a chance to meet her favorite singer in the world and  Savannah had held out on her.

"I'll let you know," she said. "Thank you for offering. That's really nice of you."

"The tour actually ends in Houston, if I'm not mistaken. I'll have to  check. That would be a fairly quick trip for you guys. But I'll shut up  and let you get some sleep."                       
       
           



       

Her disappointment surprised her; she enjoyed talking to him so much and  didn't want the conversation to end. "Sorry to bother you so late," she  said. "I blame the alcohol."

He chuckled. "Don't worry about it. I'm glad you were able to go out and have some fun. We all need it sometimes."

What did he like to do for fun? Had he thought more about retiring? What  made this guy tick? All questions she probably shouldn't be  contemplating, but they plagued her nevertheless. She wanted to know  him. Needed to know the scary, glowering man in all of his promotional  press wasn't the same one she was talking to right now. Tommy . . .  well, he hadn't been much different. He'd talked a lot of smack, had his  own swagger, played to the crowds, but she'd always recognized her  brother in all of it. This man at the other end of the call, though . . .  she didn't recognize him at all.

"Okay, well, I guess I'll talk to you soon?" she asked hesitantly.

"I hope so. Good night, Savannah. Sweet dreams."

Oh, God. He could have been lying next to her for the intimate tone of  his voice then. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and shifted  her thighs under the covers. Yes, time to hang up. "Good night,  Michael."

Once he was gone, she missed him, but she blamed that on the alcohol  too. And striking out on the whole find a hot stranger who isn't a creep  thing. That wasn't really her style, anyway.