The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(3)

At the risk of sounding like an eye-roll-inducing 1970’s power ballad, being by myself is the last thing I desire tonight, not when thoughts of Wyatt McCrae seem to elbow their way into my brain whenever I have a spare moment to think. At the same time though, I don’t want to stick around with Heidi and be that friend.

I dart my eyes from Shiner Bock to Heidi, and then down to the empty glass in my hand. Be the third wheel in an innuendo-laced conversation that will ultimately lead to a broken headboard?

Or maybe a vodka-infused drink?

Be the third wheel?

Screw that, vodka-infused drink, it is.

“I’m going to get a refill,” I announce loudly.

Heidi dips her head. She’s already dancing with Shiner Bock, grinding her ass against his crotch, before I make it three steps in the opposite direction. Apparently, he’s forgotten about the intended recipient of the second beer.

Heidi generally has that effect on men.

I shove my way through the club, and by the time I reach the bar and sit down, I’ve had so many body parts brushing against my boobs and ass that I immediately ask the bartender for a double shot in my bloody mary.

“You look bored,” a voice behind me says.

When I look back, I’m not the least bit surprised to see the man who’s spent most of the night staring at me. He slips onto the bar stool next to me just as the bartender pushes my drink across the countertop.

Granting the stranger a little smile, I stir the stalk of celery around in slow circles in my bloody mary, clinking the ice up against the glass. “No, just tired,” I reply.

“Tired, huh?”

I lean over and take a swallow of my drink before answering him. “Very.”

It’s the honest truth. The vacation to New Orleans was last minute. I barely managed to book the flight. Heidi and I have been going nonstop since we arrived several days ago. But I’ll take exhaustion any day over having to be around Your Toxic Sequel, my brother’s band, as they record their newest album. Being that I’m Lucas’s personal assistant, avoiding the band would have been impossible if I didn’t remind him he hadn’t given me a vacation in over a year.

“Ian,” the man beside me murmurs, breaking my thoughts.

He extends his hand out to me, but I don’t move to take it.

“Kylie.”

“I’ve been wanting to say something to you, but I…” Ian’s voice trails off as he casts gray eyes down to the bar countertop.

Wrinkling my straight nose, I bite into the celery. “Yeah, instead of staring at me all night, you probably would’ve weirded me out less if you had just talked to me first.“ After I say it, I can’t resist grinning.

He smiles, too, and it’s a sexy one—dimpled with the tiniest gap between his top teeth. The look works for him, and it must have been why Heidi was so insistent that I check him out.

“Look, I don’t—” he starts, but I hold up my hand.

Better get this out of the way before I let him get too far into the conversation.

“I don’t do beads.” I incline my head toward a couple of girls dancing with each other a few feet away from where we’re sitting. Several rows of purple, gold, and green beads are dangling around their flushed necks. “So, don’t ask how far I’ll go for some. And, honestly, I think I’d better get back to my friend.”

I’m already scooting off my stool before Ian’s face falls, and I make a quick getaway before he has a chance for a comeback. When a large and obviously masculine hand touches the small of my back, I spin around, ready to put him in his place regardless of how hot his smile is. “Look, I’m sure you—”

But then I look up. And it’s not Ian’s gray gaze that’s staring down into my brown eyes. These are eyes that I could pluck out of a crowd without even making an effort to locate them, and right now, they make me forget how to breathe just right. The deep scowl on this face literally speeds up my pulse. I tighten my grip around my drink, so I won’t spill it all over my boots and his.

The sharp blue eyes glaring down into mine belong to none other than Wyatt McCrae—the ripped, tattooed, and dirty-blond bass guitarist for Your Toxic Sequel, my big brother’s band. He’s the reason I escaped to New Orleans. I needed to stay the hell away from him, yet here he is, standing right in front of me.

I force myself to keep my voice even. “What are you doing here?”

Wyatt leans down until his mouth is level with my ear. Despite the heat caused by all the sweaty bodies around us, I shiver when the piercing at the corner of his lower lip skims my skin.

“Too fucking loud in here, Ky. Outside.”

Though I know I shouldn’t, I give him a jerky nod and follow behind him. Along the way, I pass my drink to some random girl gyrating on the concrete dance floor and she gladly accepts. Wyatt reaches back, wrapping his hand around my wrist, to keep me close to him as we maneuver through the crowd. I’m unable to stop myself from making a comparison between him and Ian, the man at the bar who’d backed down just as soon as he began trying. Wyatt doesn’t let me go until we’re outside and in the alley. Out here, I can hear not only the upbeat pop anthem playing inside the club, but also the music from a street festival.

Although there’s so much between us that needs to be said, and I know I’m going to have to speak to him eventually, Wyatt’s the first to say something…well, do something. He gives me an appreciative once-over, taking in all five foot four inches of me, starting at my boots and working his way up. He pauses on certain areas—the curvy hips his hands have gripped time and time again, the tiny flash of pale skin between my jeans and green fitted tee, and my small breasts—before stopping at my tousled blue-and-black hair.

“Come here,” he orders.

When I don’t move, his hands flare over my hips, drawing me close to him until our bodies rub together. Wyatt’s touch is familiar—one I’d be able to immediately recognize even if we were in complete darkness. It’s too bad for him, but I’m not having it. I break our contact, stuffing my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans. They dip a little lower on my hips, and of course, his blue eyes takes this in.

“God, it’s been too damn long since I’ve gotten to do that,” he says. “And you’re cutting me off already.”

“Looks like I am, doesn’t it?”

It’s been two and a half months since he’s touched me to be exact. I haven’t seen Wyatt since Thanksgiving, and I close my eyes, letting my thoughts wander back to those last moments. For two amazing days, we did nothing but eat too much pie, listen to music, and make love. Or lust. Whatever the hell it is I should call it.

I didn’t leave him until the morning after Thanksgiving, and I hadn’t felt the need to wake him up to say that I was going. It seemed like we had already said plenty. The night before, I’d told him I loved him, and he had simply stared at me—blankly. Wordlessly. Except, his speechlessness had told me volumes.

I’d been wasting time with someone who couldn’t reciprocate my feelings. And after years of being in love with him, realizing that singed a hole into my chest.

I push the memory aside, opening my eyes, so I can confront his dark blue gaze. “Why are you here?” I demand furiously.

“Why weren’t you in Nashville?”

The muscles in my neck twitch. I take in a noisy breath, so I won’t tell him to go shove the neck of his guitar up his arrogant, perfect ass. “I’m entitled to a vacation, dickhead.”

Wyatt lets out a dangerous chuckle. “Taken the exact moment we were supposed to see each other again? That shit won’t work with me, Kylie. You should’ve known this would happen since you’ve been ignoring me ever since Thanksgiving.”

Because he’s using my full name and not Ky or Bluebird, and since we once agreed to be honest with one another—even if that truthfulness aches like a fist to the heart—I give him the closest thing to a smile I can summon. “I’m entitled to a vacation that gets me away from you because seeing you always results in me losing my head for a few days.” When a sensual grin begins to creep its way across his face, I immediately add, “And those few days always, always end with you letting me down for some reason or another and me wanting to knee you in the balls.”

Grasping at his chest dramatically, he stumbles backward in the alley and winces, causing me to glare at him. “You’re scary when you’re pissed, Wolfe.” As I open my mouth to correct my last name—since I never changed it back to Wolfe following my divorce seven years ago—he presses his lips flat. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“Or you’ll what? Spank me?”

Running his gaze suggestively up the length of my body, he says softly, deliberately, “That’s coming anyway, Ky. You know how I feel about your ass.”

Choosing to ignore that particular comment, I pull my hands out of my pockets, grab the cigarette tucked behind my ear, and slide it between my lips. Wyatt quickly produces a lighter from his pocket and holds it a few inches from my mouth. As I lean forward, I stare up at him from beneath my lashes.

“How’d you find me?” I ask. Taking a long inhale, I straighten my back and support my weight against the brick wall. “Well?” If he says Lucas told him, I’m going to deck my brother in his famous mouth. He hasn’t taken it upon himself to butt in for a long time, but nothing Lucas does surprises me.