The Other P-Word(26)

"Okay."

"Good. I bet you look so fucking hot right now."

The beat picked up. I swear he was playing Spanish Fly by Van Halen. Shit … he was giving me music to masturbate by.

"Evan … "

"Suck your fingers again."

I made a slurping sound and I swear I heard him groan.

"Now what?"

"Fuck yourself, Billie, but not hard. Slow and long."

I inserted my wet fingers. He played something bluesy to help me along.

"Are you shaved?"

"I have a runway strip. Is that important?"

"No, I just wanted a visual. Rub your clit with your thumb but be very gentle. It requires a delicate touch."

I writhed again but it was different this time.

"Faster, Billie," he said, giving me a rocking riff that had my fingers dancing.

"Is that Sunshine of Your Love?"

"By the band Cream. Appropriate, don't you think? Now shut up. I think you need to wet those fingers again."

I removed them and almost stuck them in my mouth, but I stopped myself, registering what I was about to do.

"I can't do that. I'm not ambidextrous."

He did a low rumbling thing that made my moisture meter go to flood  level. "Go ahead and taste yourself, Price. You probably taste like warm  cherry pie."

"Evan."

"Suck your fingers now."

Not cherry pie, but not half bad either.

"Did you do it?"

"Yes."

"Now put those fingers to work back inside that tight pussy. It's time to land."

I inserted my newly slicked fingers back inside just as he changed the tune again to something powerfully harsh and fast.

"How do you taste, baby?"

"Good."

"Play with your clit."

I squirmed, surprised that a sheen of slickness coated the rest of my  body. My muscles started to expand while my heart and pulse accompanied  Evan's strumming guitar. Then it all intensified tenfold.

Fuck-what had I been missing?

"Oh my God, that was amazing," I managed to gasp out between breaths.

"Come again?"

"I said that was amazing."

He chuckled, a low rumble that released a new flurry in my belly. "I heard you. I was asking if you wanted to come … again."

"Yes, please."





Chapter Fourteen





Tilla took one look at me and shook her head.

"You have to change your footwear, sweetie," she said.

"I thought all the girls wore heels."

"They do, but we're all used to it. Go change into flats or better yet,  sneakers, at least for your first week. Trust me, your feet are going to  thank me."

I came back in black flats. I met the other employees of The Lost Souls'  Club. It turned out most of them were long-time friends of Tilla and  Mike. Mike's brother Brick acted as another bartender slash bouncer. The  name fit him.

The bar wasn't huge but it had a tendency to get crowded. Tilla showed  me how the sections were divided and explained that sometimes we'd need  to make our own drinks if the bar was busy.

I didn't see Evan until it was time to report for work. I'd heard him  leave earlier. Being a girl of good manners, I wasn't sure what the  appropriate response would be to the night before. I wanted to thank him  but that seemed odd. Was there an appropriate thank you card when  someone helped you orgasm?                       
       
           



       

I didn't say anything. He graced me with a bright smile as if nothing  had happened between us. Maybe to him it hadn't. He wore dark jeans,  sufficiently faded in all the right places, and brown work boots that  for some reason really turned me on. His short-sleeved black T-shirt  showed off his muscles and his naked arms, the left one inked in the  same pattern as his neck, the right with the Dylan Thomas poem.

"Here you go," he said, handing Tilla a key. "I finally found mine."

"I think you should give this to Billie," Tilla said. She turned to me. "Evan has a habit of losing his key."

"Good idea," Mike chimed in, carrying a box of beer. Evan started helping him unload the bottles.

I wasn't sure if they were trying to create something between us, or if she was just being a logical landlord.

"It doesn't happen that often," Evan said. "You have a problem with me getting the spare from you?"

"Yeah, I do," Mike said. "The last thing I want to see at four in the morning is your ugly mug on our doorstep."

"It's not like my ugly mug woke you up or anything."

"You didn't wake us up, but you did interrupt us," Tilla said.

"We were busy," Mike added then he looked at his wife and winked. "Very busy."

"Ah, I gotcha, so next time I should wait five minutes."

I cupped my hand over my mouth to cover my laugh, but it didn't matter  because Mike and Tilla were cracking up too. The three of them seemed to  have this easy-going friendship, the kind forged over years.

Tilla put her hands on her hips. "Kiss my ass, Evan."

"Sure thing," Evan responded. My jaw dropped when he kissed Mike on the forehead.

Tilla and I laughed so hard we both doubled over. Mike pushed Evan away,  giving him a look that was trying to be disgusted, except he couldn't  hide his smile.

"Props for the joke, but don't ever fucking do that again," he said.

"You got it, man. I'll go fill up the ice," Evan said.

"Mike and I can get it." Tilla took her husband's hand and disappeared in the back, leaving Evan and I alone.

He leaned against the bar, throwing the gold key into the air then  catching it in his palm. Each time it seemed to go higher, glinting  against the lights. "How's about it, Price?"

"How about what?"

"You wanna hold onto the spare key?"

I wondered if it meant something that he called it the spare key and not  my spare key. I shook the thought out of my head, watching its ascent.

The third time, I grabbed it before he could make its landing. "Sure. Will you take mine?"

He smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. I closed my fist around the key so hard that the metal indented my palm.

"I'll take whatever you're willing to give, so long as I'm able to."

Why did he talk to me like that?

I didn't have time to ask because Mike returned and we all got to work, getting ready to open.

"Did you rearrange the bar?" I asked Tilla, trying to keep my eyes on something besides Evan.

"Thanks to your friend, Dillon. He gave me some good ideas."

"He does that for a living." I must have been very preoccupied with Evan  that night, because I didn't even remember Dillon and Tilla's  conversation.

"He told me. I would hire him if I could afford it. I owe that boy a  couple rounds after this. The bar is super-efficient, thanks to his  ideas."

"He'll be glad to hear it."

Someone yelled out an order for two beers. "I can get it," I said.

"Always yell ‘behind' when you're walking in back of someone," Tilla instructed.

"Why?" I asked, just as Brick bumped me, causing the two glasses of  pilsner to slosh. Thankfully, they didn't spill over. "Never mind."

Tilla laughed. "You'll get used to it."

"I hope so," I said when I returned from taking the glasses. It seemed  easy to start and continue a conversation between serving tables.

"The trick is not to get stressed out. This is the kind of place people  come to relax, commiserate and listen to some kickass music. Most of the  customers we get are cool."                       
       
           



       

I turned toward the stage where the Evan fangirls were starting to scout their territory.

"Yeah, that's a recent phenomenon. They can be a little much, but they give us good business."

"Did you and Mike always want to open a bar?"

"At first." She bit her lip as if she was surprised by what she said.  "Don't get me wrong. I love this place, but Mike and I have been married  for four years. I want to start a family."

"He doesn't?"

"He does, but it's impractical when we're running a new business and working until three in the morning."

I struggled with the appropriate response. The few times I'd seen them together made it clear Mike worshipped her.

She wiped her hands on a dishtowel. "C'mon, I'll show you how to make the perfect margarita … frothy not frozen."

Tilla was a good trainer and I learned a great deal from shadowing her. I  even managed to serve a few tables on my own. The time went fast,  especially when Evan took the stage. I think everyone went into a trance  when he sang Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen.

That was, everyone but the annoying brunette who'd had her fill of cosmopolitans.

"I wish Evan would stop playing this obscure stuff," she complained as  if she knew him intimately. I swallowed down the thought. She probably  did know him that way.