I let the drums in completely then, ignore the little technical errors or the other bullshit that bugs me, and just try to listen to the music. What they're playing right now is shit that we wrote after all. Even if the notes aren't perfect, it's still ours. Just the fact that these guys have memorized our shit, played it enough that they can whip it out at a moment's notice is impressive to me. I don't care about anything else.
I bite back the orgasm by clamping my teeth down on my tongue, slamming into Lola's ass as the crowd spins behind me, like a whirlpool, trying to pull us in and drown us in its depths.
The pummeling bite of the drums nips at my heels, spurring my hips faster, harder, deeper. Lola cries out and collapses forward, her body tightening, her fingers curling against the wall. If this really was a one-night stand right here, I know I'd be crawling back for more, begging for it, desperate for another taste of this woman.
I'm feeling good, letting my worries wash over and past me as I lose myself inside of Lola, loving her even as I let myself devolve into an animalistic mass of muscles and cock and testosterone. Feeling real good until I spot Paulette Washington in the crowd not a dozen feet away from us. She's got a smile on her face, arms crossed over her plain black T-shirt. She might not be wearing a suit right now, but her blue jeans and neutral eyeshadow leave her just as invisible. Crap.
If I physically could've pulled myself away from Lola in that moment, I would've. But I can't. The pull between us is ten times as strong as the riptide that makes up the sweating, drooling, panting crowd. I growl out a curse and curl my fingers against her hips, spilling myself inside of her, relishing the moment at the same second I'm fucking hating Paulette Washington.
Lola moans, reaching a hand back and grasping for me like she's afraid I'm going to stop, and then she collapses, forcing me to grab her around the waist and drop us both to the floor. Sweat is pouring down her face and her lips are curved in a crooked half-smile.
“Fucking fuck, Ronnie,” she whispers, looking over her shoulder with a contented expression of feminine possessiveness that makes my heart hammer. Unfortunately, when she sees my face, the expression drops away and she's shoving me back, yanking her pants back into place while I do the same. I help Lola to her feet as she narrows her eyes at me and then follows a nod of my chin to the TV producer and her admittedly terrifying expression. There's a … blankness … there that I don't like, that leaves me really uneasy. The hell is this? “That bitch,” Lola snorts, grabbing my hand and dragging me towards Paulette. I almost want to run in the other direction, but what good would that do me? Better to face this shit head on. “Interrupting my first raw dog with my new bloke. Motherfucker.” I almost smile at Lola's slang, almost. But then I get close enough to Paulette to hear her voice when she speaks.
“Mr. McGuire,” she says, her voice as pleasant as the hiss of a snake. Wonderful. A quick glance over my shoulder shows me that Turner's still onstage. Good. I look back at Paulette.
“What the fuck do you want? Something about the way you're staring at me tells me this isn't just a coincidence that I'm seeing you here tonight, is it? You must really want that reality show.” Paulette laughs, her blindingly brilliant teeth reflecting back the throbbing club lights like a fireworks show inside her wide mouth.
“After what I just witnessed? Of course, I do. That's TV gold right there, Miss Saints, Mr. McGuire.” She takes a step back, pushing her back against the dancers around her. I guess they sense some of the strangeness that I do and most of them move away without protest. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”
“The answer's no, Paulette. I don't know how to make that any clearer.” Paulette keeps smiling at me. That's the scariest part of all of this. Still smiling. But there's something else about her tonight that kind of freaks me out, something that either wasn't there before or was very carefully hidden. That's when I see the dots of crimson on the back of her hand, like spots of red paint. Or blood. Could very well be blood, right?
Lola sees it too and we exchange a glance.
“Oh,” she says, cringing and wiping the back of her hand on her shirt. “Silly me. Things got a little messier than I'd intended.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, and she sighs, sweeping pale strands of brunette over her shoulder. Her eyes slide past me, catch on Turner for a moment before she drops her gaze back to mine. I squeeze Lola's hand tighter, keep her fingers clenched in a death grip. I won't go through the shit I went through at the concert ever again. If Paulette has a gun, a knife, or what the fuck ever, I'm ready. At this point, I'm ready for just about everything. “What is going on here?”