Текст книги "Beat"
Автор книги: Vi Keeland
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Chapter Seventeen
Lucky
“Sorry to interrupt,” the blond facilities manager says snidely.
Startled, I jump. My instinct is to back away from Flynn. Unravel myself from his arms. But when I try to, he tightens his grip and holds me in place.
“What can we do for you?” Flynn says, impatience obvious.
“The electricians need to turn the power off to wire in some pyrotechnics for tonight’s show. It will only take about fifteen minutes, but the lighting needs to be off.” She plasters on a smile that is way too sugary to be sweet. “Doesn’t look like you’ll mind a little darkness though.”
“By all means.” Flynn shrugs. I’m not sure if he doesn’t pick up her sarcasm or just doesn’t care.
With a toss of her bleached hair, she turns and disappears. The clickity-clack of her heels sound in her wake until the door slams closed. I look at Flynn. “I don’t think she was happy.”
“I don’t think I care.” He grins.
Reality begins to come flooding back, hitting like a tidal wave. My head spins. What did I just do? “Flynn…I…we…”
He pulls his head back, taking in the confusion that’s written all over my face. His grip around me loosens a bit, although he still doesn’t let go. “You okay?”
I’m not. I’m elated, sad, happy, guilt-ridden, emotionally spent and entirely bewildered. What the hell did I do? I’m the one who initiated the kiss—it wasn’t like it just happened. “Yes. No. Yes. I mean…”
Flynn grins. “You sound sure of yourself.”
“I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t have.”
The look of disappointment on his face makes my heart break into a thousand little pieces. He releases me from his hold, taking a step back. Blowing out a thick stream of air, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “No. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
“But I kissed you.”
“Pretty sure we were both involved in that kiss.”
“I know. But I…” I look away, guilt beginning to eclipse my other emotions, making me see things more clearly. Making me feel sick.
The sound of a door opening and workmen coming in interrupts our conversation. A man’s voice calls out to us, “We’re about to cut the electricity. You might want to step down from the stage. Gets pretty dark in here.”
Awkwardness has descended between us—the first since the day we met. We leave the arena and ride back to the hotel in deafening silence. I’m lost in thought, my mind whirling between what I’ve done and why I did it, but mostly I find myself thinking about how right it felt, even though it was clearly wrong.
“Hey,” Flynn says as we pull up to the hotel. I’m looking out the window and barely notice we’ve stopped. With his thumb and forefinger, he lifts my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “You kicked step six’s ass.”
I smile. “You’re being kind. I didn’t kick its ass. I tripped over it and fell. But you were there to save me.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. But whatever part I had, the pleasure was all mine.” He opens the door to the SUV and hops out. Standing, he offers his hand to help me exit, then closes the door behind me and raps on the hood twice to let the driver know to take off.
We’re almost at the entrance to the hotel when I slow down. “Flynn.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’m sorry I kissed you.”
He winks at me. “I’m not.”
Dylan was supposed to hit more radio stations this afternoon, so I’m surprised when I open the door and find him lounging on the bed, watching TV.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” I say, almost accusingly. Not a very nice way to greet your boyfriend.
“You don’t sound happy that I am.” His brows knit together.
“I am. It’s just…I thought you had to go to the radio stations, so I was surprised. And I’m sort of not feeling well.”
“Mick went missing again.” Dylan sits up on the edge of the bed and pats his lap.
“Missing?”
“Yeah. He does that every once in a while. Ties one on and no one knows where he is, so we wind up changing our schedule.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
Dylan shrugs. “The tour manager hates it. But we’re all used to it by now. Used to happen every few days. He’s slowed down in his old age. Why are you all the way over there still? Come here.”
I walk to him, my steps heavy, laden down with guilt.
He pulls me onto his lap. “I’m actually glad the interview was canceled. They’ve had me so booked with crap, we haven’t had a chance to enjoy being off the tour bus and properly take advantage of this big bed.” He nuzzles against my neck. The exact same spot Flynn was nibbling on only an hour ago. A real wave of nausea hits me. I seriously think I’m going to be sick.
“I’m sorry. I think I’m going to…” I dart to the bathroom.
I splash my face with water and look in the mirror. Unable to stand the sight of myself, I slide down the wall behind me and sit on the floor with my head in my hands. How long can I hide out in here? Dylan will eventually check on me. I decide to take a shower, wash some of the guilt away, or at least the remnants of another man’s mouth on me. It’s the least I can do.
When I emerge in a towel, Dylan’s on the phone. He smiles at me and his eyes drop to my bare legs.
“No. Just cancel it. I have other plans for this afternoon now.”
Other plans? I really need to be alone right now, and something tells me his other plans are me.
He hangs up just as I’ve pulled out a change of clothes from the drawer. He comes up behind me and gently kisses my bare shoulder. “You feeling better?”
“Not really. Sorry. Must be a stomach flu.”
He turns me and parts my towel at my stomach. Bending down, his lips brush against the skin of my belly. “Let me kiss it and make it feel better.”
“I…I don’t want to get you sick.”
He drops to his knees and tugs harshly so my towel falls to the floor. “I won’t catch anything. Not from the parts I’m going to kiss.”
Part of me really wanted to skip the concert tonight. Feign sickness and stay in bed all night to avoid seeing Flynn. Seeing anyone, actually. But a bigger part of me wanted to see him up on stage. It’s his first night filling in for Linc and playing with Easy Ryder. He’s been there for me and my big moments lately, so I want to be there for his.
The backstage area at the American Airlines Arena is huge. Somehow, we manage not to run into each other before the show. After Dylan leaves to get ready to go on stage, I head down to watch the concert from the floor. Winding my way through the maze of halls backstage, I make my way to the floor exit. As soon as I turn the last corner, I catch a glimpse of Flynn at the other end of the hall. He’s talking to a woman. She’s super tall, almost as tall as him, and model-waif thin. Between her cropped top and low-waisted skirt, the bare expanse of her skin runs a mile long. Flawless, exposed skin. Long, wavy chestnut hair hangs loose, framing her abundant cleavage. She has one hand on Flynn’s chest and her head is tipped in that provocative, flirty way that makes a man’s eyes focus on her neck.
As I step closer, Flynn’s head turns in my direction and Waif Girl follows his line of sight. I’ve never had an issue with confidence, but suddenly I feel short and regret eating that donut an hour ago.
“Hey. I was just coming to look for you,” Flynn says with an easy smile.
My brain short circuits watching his lips move as he speaks. Lips I can almost still feel on me. I’m momentarily lost, remembering the way his hands threaded tightly through my hair. I blink myself out of the haze. “Well.” My arms rise and fall at my sides. “You found me.” Seriously? Nice moves, Lucky.
I watch as his eyes drop to my lips. Knowing his mind is in the same place as mine makes it that much more difficult to focus.
He cocks his head, a smile dangling at the corner of his mouth. “Can you give us a minute?” he says to the waif, without taking his eyes off me. She walks away, annoyed.
“You okay?” He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing along the top of mine.
I nod.
“I’ve been thinking about this morning all day…”
So have I. God, so have I. “Me too.”
“I’m sorry if I pushed too hard.”
“You didn’t push. I kissed you.”
He grins. “I meant step six. I’m sorry if I pushed you too hard to go up on stage.”
“Oh.”
“But I’m glad to know you were thinking about our kiss all day.”
“I wasn’t…I meant…I…”
He leans in and whispers, “I was too. I can still feel your body against mine.”
A voice comes over the backstage intercom. “Five minutes, Easy Ryder.”
“Guess that’s me now, too.”
“Guess it is.”
“You going to watch from the audience?”
I nod.
“I’ll see you from the stage, then.”
“You won’t be able to see anyone in the audience with the lights.”
“Don’t need to.” He taps his finger to his temple. “When I close my eyes, I see your face right here.”
Even before Dylan and I started dating, I’d been to dozens of Easy Ryder concerts. They’re legendary, even after only twelve years of playing together. The type of band that is so in tune, the show is never the same because someone makes a change on the fly and the band just goes with it seamlessly. Tonight is no different. The pull of the show has been intense and there’s a crackle in the audience, a sort of slow burn that feels like it will turn into a wildfire when the spark hits the flint in just the right spot. That flint has been “Sins of Mine,” the latest single that is climbing the chart. I know for a fact that the song was written with Dylan’s voice in mind, and it’s obvious the crowds have loved it so far.
Not having the play list, I assume we’re about to get to that moment with “Sins of Mine,” when the stage goes dark. I’m surprised when the first chord strums and it’s “Just Once More,” Linc’s song. But tonight it’s Flynn’s to sing. I hold my breath until we’re pulled from the darkness and a spotlight shines on only him.
Jesus. Holy mother of all sinners. I seriously need to remember to breathe.
He looks like a rock god on the stage. Perfectly magnificent in the spotlight as he sits on a stool with a guitar resting on his lap. It’s impossible to tear your eyes away. The crowd stands in silent worship as he looks down and leisurely strums the intro. Then slowly, from the darkness behind him, the drums start to roll…at first low, then louder and louder. Until we can feel the vibration in our chest. Flynn stops playing for a moment, the spotlight dims, the arena goes dark again, and when the lights come back on, the full band starts playing. Right before he begins to sing, Flynn closes his eyes for a moment and then finally looks up and smiles to the audience. That lazy, slow-spreading, dimple-bearing, completely titillating smile. And the place goes mad.
Flint to spark.
Fire.
Even though the place is rocking, I seriously don’t move for the entire performance. I’m captivated. By every note. Every lyric. Everything about the man. If I were fifteen, his poster would definitely be pinned on my wall…maybe even right over Dylan’s.
After the show, I head backstage to the band’s lounge. It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to get through because security is flanked by women. More than one has the name Flynn Beckham on her lips. I’m so excited for him, I’m still smiling even after being pushed and shoved as I attempt to show my badge to the guard.
Unfortunately, Dylan isn’t feeling the post-show happiness that I am. “What’s the matter? You guys were incredible,” I say.
“Mick came in three bars late in ‘Solace.’ Duff played the recorded version of ‘To the Wall’ instead of the live version, and I couldn’t hear out of one of my earpieces. It was a shit show,” he says angrily.
I may be partial to the band, but I didn’t pick up on Mick’s or Duff’s flubs. “I didn’t catch it. I’m sure no one else noticed.”
“You were probably too busy dancing around in the audience.” I know how Dylan can get when he’s not happy with his music. He’s a perfectionist. It’s a large part of why Easy Ryder has been successful for so long. But usually his attitude isn’t directed toward me.
Security brings back a half dozen women—they’re winners of a radio contest and the prize was tickets to the show and meeting the band. Dylan unenthusiastically shakes their hands. The other members of Easy Ryder at least act gracious. They stand around and chatter to the star-struck fans, making them feel at ease.
Eventually, Flynn walks in and I sit back and observe the reception he gets. Everyone is congratulating him, slapping him on the back and telling him how great he did. Everyone, that is, except Dylan. Security begins to usher the contest winners out when one brave woman yells, “Wait! We didn’t get to meet the last member of the band. Flynn, I love you!”
Flynn turns and smiles. Dylan looks at Flynn on one side of the room, then back at security. “They’re done. He’s not part of the band.”
The thing about lead singers is, they’re the face of the band. So while that often leads to overinflated egos, it also leads to singers bearing the weight of the band on their shoulders. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell which of the two is causing the front man to act a certain way.
“Remember when we were his age and hit our first tour?” Duff lifts his chin toward the bar area where Flynn has just walked into the after-party at a club on the strip in South Beach.
“Nope.” Dylan knocks back the remainder of his glass. He’s usually a beer drinker, but tonight he’s drinking vodka on the rocks and the effect is noticeable. He’s relaxed a little, his anger seemingly dissipating more with each refill. He holds his glass above his head, rattling around the ice as the waitress passes.
“Another one, Mr. Ryder?”
“Keep ‘em coming.”
“Well, I remember,” Duff continues without being asked. “That first year. It was better than the highest high. Probably why I ended up in rehab a couple of times after that first tour. Chasing that high was like a dog chasing his tail. The kid’s good. He’s gonna do well.”
“It’s not his first tour.”
“You can’t count road trips in a van with truck-stop showers as a tour. Or the little gigs he played before this. This is a fucking tour. Sold-out arenas, a coach bus with gold fixtures in the bathroom. Groupies who want to do shit to you beyond your wildest dreams.”
“I didn’t mean it wasn’t his big show. I meant it’s our fucking tour, not his. He’s filling in for Linc and then he’s in the opening act in a few months.”
“Why do you got a hard-on for this kid? You jealous because he’s prettier than you?”
“Fuck off.” Dylan stands. “This waitress is taking forever. I’m going to go get my own drink.”
Seeing him stand, Dylan’s security walks over. “Just going to get a drink.”
“The bar is pretty crowded. That’s not advisable, sir. Would you like one of us to get it for you?”
“No. I’m going to get it myself,” Dylan snaps before storming off to the bar.
Duff watches his friend walk away and turns back amused. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“See what?” I ask.
“The day Dylan Ryder starts to question his greatness. I’d say he’s a little bit jealous of the fresh meat.”
Duff motions toward the bar. As security had warned, the crammed bar has turned into mayhem. Fans mob Dylan before he even orders a drink. “That should make him feel a little better.”
“What? Getting mobbed?”
“Yep. Love him like a brother, but the arrogant fuck just needed some attention. He’s not used to anyone else in the spotlight. Never been good at sharing.”
Two hours later, Dylan is happily shitfaced and I’m ready to call it a night. Flynn and I have been playing cat and mouse with our eyes all evening, but I haven’t had a chance to speak to him. Until now. Dylan’s in the men’s room and I’m standing with security, waiting to leave. He walks over, nods at the hulking security guard to my left, and turns his back so we can talk in something approaching privacy.
“Congratulations,” I say. “You were absolutely incredible on stage.”
“Are you referring to this afternoon or this evening?”
My eyes nearly bulge from my head and I look around to see if anyone heard. “I meant the concert. You were…amazing.”
“So I wasn’t this afternoon?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Behave,” I warn.
“Nope.” He shakes his head slowly.
“No? You’re not going to behave.”
“Nope. I’ve decided what happened today was too good. It needs to happen again. Frequently, in fact.”
“How much have you had to drink?”
He holds up his glass. “Water. All night.”
My eyes widen. “But…” I stagger to find the right words. “I’m not a cheater. Really. I wasn’t anyway…until today,” I say softly.
Flynn looks me in the eyes. “Neither am I. Not talking about cheating.”
“What…then, what are you talking—”
“Here comes your soon-to-be ex.” He tips his glass in Dylan’s direction as he approaches.
My heart almost stops when Dylan arrives next to us. He scowls at Flynn, then says to me, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Good night, Flynn.”
I look back over my shoulder twice on my way to the door. Flynn is watching with a devilish smile and gleam in his eye. My mind is jumbled as I climb into the back of the SUV, but one thing is clear…I’m totally screwed.
Chapter Eighteen
Flynn
The bus was rocking last night, but it had nothing to do with the hundreds of miles we traveled in the darkness after the final show in Miami. The roads were smooth, although not nearly as smooth as Mick Stonewood. I have no idea how he even made the logistics work, bringing two women back to his little cubbyhole of a bunk. Yet somehow he kept the wall on our side of the bus banging half the night. I finally put my Bose noise-canceling headphones on and lulled myself into pretending the steady rocking I was feeling was the road beneath the tires, rather than the drummer beneath my bunk. I suppose I should be grateful the bastard fucks like he drums…with the rhythm of a master.
I stretch out my body as I wait for the coffee to finish brewing, then pour two mugs and jot down some notes for “Blur.” One more set of connections and I’ll have a decent first draft. Turns out, I’ve saved the best for last. I’m looking forward to Lucky’s poetic tongue helping me with this one today.
It’s not long before she rises. I hear the click of the bathroom door, and a few minutes later she’s quietly closing the door to the living area behind her.
“Morning,” she whispers.
“Good morning.” I nod. The day just got a whole lot better.
She eyes two mugs on the table. “One of them for me?”
“Just as we like it.”
She smiles and slides into the seat across from me, wrapping her hands around the mug and bringing it to her lips. “I could get used to this service.”
“There’re plenty of other services I’d be happy to provide.” I cock one eyebrow.
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“You did.” I sip my coffee, watching her over the brim of my mug.
“How did you sleep?” she asks.
“Not so good. A lot of banging kept me up.” It’s the truth, wrapped up in politeness.
“You felt that too?”
How could I not, my bunk was literally rocking. “Yep.”
“I thought we might be getting a flat tire at one point.”
I was hoping that damn thing would deflate. “Seems like the ride is smooth this morning. You ready to finish off ‘Blur’?”
“I was hoping you’d want to do that this morning.”
“I think it needs one more verse. Another sonnet for the last set of connections.”
“I’m ready. What line are we writing about crossing today?”
“Friends and lovers.” Our eyes lock and my mouth spreads a slow grin.
Fourteen lines, ten syllables each. It may not look like much on paper, but there’s nothing quick about writing a sonnet that’s a song. Especially with Lucky. Even though I clearly had less-than-virtuous reasons for suggesting friends and lovers as the topic of the last verse, she still gives no less to our writing. We’re sitting here for three hours discussing and debating words and feelings that shift from friends to lovers, yet I still have to bait her to take the conversation out of the realm of professional.
“No, if we use the word certain when crossing the line, that would mean crossing the line is inevitable,” she says.
I shrug. “Sometimes it is.”
“Nothing is inevitable except death.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Some things are just fate. And you can’t fight fate.”
“But—”
I interrupt her. “You keep telling yourself you can fight fate. But I promise you, you’re wrong. Some things are just meant to happen.”
She stares at me, I can see the wheels in motion—she’s inwardly fighting the truth. At the sound of the door behind me, my head turns. Mick stumbles in with one of his two half-dressed brunettes in tow. I collect my stuff from the table and decide it’s time for a shower. But not before I lean down and quietly leave Lucky with one last thought. “I can’t wait till the day I get to wake up next to you and kiss the hell out of you in public.”
Both the shower and the bathroom are occupied, so I try to get in a little exercise. I haven’t been to the gym in almost a week, and I’m going to have to figure out a routine that works on a bus or I’ll look like an aging forty-year-old father of triplets before we make it to LA.
In the hallway between the front lounge area and back bedroom, there’s a storage area with a pull-up bar installed. Duff gave me the quick tour the other day—there are free weights in the bottom of the lower cabinet and even a collapsible bench for pressing. I hit the floor for fifty pushups, do some lunges to stretch out and let my muscles relax, then grab the pull-up bar. My muscles burn, but it’s a feeling I relish. I’m on number eighteen when the door to the front lounge area opens and Lucky walks in.
Muscles tensed and straining, my eyes are glued to her as she stands there while I slowly finish the last two pull-ups. Even though my muscles were starting to falter only a minute ago, I suddenly have perfect form and control over my body while I fluidly rise up and down. Thank you, testosterone.
I watch as she swallows, taking in my shirtless torso flexing while I lift and slowly come back down. The look in her eyes conveys what she hasn’t accepted yet. I jump to my feet after I finish the set of twenty I’d set out to do. It’s a narrow hallway and she can’t get by without my moving, so I step aside to give her room to pass. Well, to give her some room to pass. I could definitely back up so there’s enough room for two without touching. But what fun would that be?
“I thought you were going to shower,” she says to my naked chest, with a huskiness in her voice that makes me harden instantly.
“Occupied,” I say as I catch my breath.
She nods. Then moves to pass me, turning her back to sidle through the little room I’ve left. But in the tight confinement of the hallway, her ass brushes up against me and my self-control slips. I put my hand out to stop her from passing, fingers gripping her hip tightly. My shirtless, sweaty front to her back, Lucky’s breath hitches and I exhale a jagged breath. I want to run my lips across that neck and push her up against the wall she’s standing in front of. Show her what being near her does to me as I press myself up against her ass. She doesn’t try to move.
I exhale again, my warm breath landing on her neck.
She inhales sharply.
I hear the shower water turn off in the distance, but I’m stuck in this bubble, interpreting what she feels by only the sound of her breathing and the reaction of her body. Normally, I like music when I have a woman beneath me. A rhythm we can both let flow through our bodies and move to. But I want the first time I’m inside of her to be quiet. So I can listen to her breathing and let her breaths tell me what she needs from me.
Jesus, this woman tests every bit of restraint I have. My body aches for her. Without a doubt I want her. But not like this. Not with her boyfriend twenty feet away. Not with her still sleeping in his bed at night. I drop my hand and release her, backing away. I’m going to walk away because I want her. And not this way.
I manage to accomplish the impossible, keeping distance from Lucky when she’s with Dylan, on a bus where there are few places to hide. The sun is setting by the time we pull into Little Rock. The tour manager hops on the bus at the airport and hands Mick two plane tickets. Mick has a fistful of ass from the woman on his left, and his tongue in the other one’s mouth.
Duff and I are sitting on the couch watching the end of a movie. He takes a draw on his beer, lifts his chin toward Mick and his two fuck buddies and says, “It’s like having live porn. Watch the next move. He’s gonna turn his head to the other side and stick his tongue in her mouth. The left hand will slide up to that one’s back while the right hand grabs a handful of the other one’s ass. Then he’s gonna whip two signed postcards out of his back pocket with his autograph next to the city he met them in.”
Amused, I sit and watch the end of the Mick show rather than the movie. The last scene plays out exactly as Duff described it. The two women giggle when he hands them the postcards and escorts them off the bus. I chuckle. “Guess he’s been using those moves for a while, huh?”
“Yep. Two-on-one gets a signed postcard. Mick’s an ass man. Taking it Greek gets you tickets to the next night’s show and an encore performance before you’re handed the one-way first-class plane ride and a kiss-off at the airport.”
“Shit. He kept me up half the night with those two. Guess I should be glad they weren’t Greek or I wouldn’t sleep again tonight at the hotel.”
Duff finishes off his beer. “Nah. They would have been postcarded anyway. We’re in Little Rock, it’s wife night.”
“Mick’s married?”
“Yep. Going on fifteen years. Married his high-school-fucking-sweetheart. Lydia. She’s a bitch. But who could blame her, married to that jackass? Two kids, a dog and a white picket fence around his house in the suburbs too.”
“No shit. You married?”
“Divorced.” He shakes his head and laughs cynically. “It’s ironic. I’m the only asshole that stopped dipping my pen in the tour ink when I found a good woman. Surprised her one night by coming home early from a gig. Had flowers in my hand and all when I found her blowing our CPA. A fucking accountant for Christ’s sake.”
“Wow. Sorry.”
“The worst part? She stopped giving me head after the wedding, and here she is on her knees for some pencil dick.”
“What did you do?”
“Broke the asshole’s nose, divorced the bitch and vowed never to get married again.” He shrugs. “I like getting head too much to try it again anyway.” Duff reaches into the small fridge on the side of the couch that’s only stocked with beer and pulls us each out one. “You got a girl?”
“I’m working on it.”
He nods. “Well. Wife night usually means the band goes out to dinner. Tour manager has a steady woman who will come and won’t say two words. Lydia will pick a fight with Mick during appetizers. And Lucky will obviously be there.”
Not wanting to call attention to my interest in Lucky, I haven’t poked around any. But a little poking here won’t seem out of the ordinary. We’ve already chatted about all the other guys’ women. “Those two serious?” I ask casually and crack open my beer.
“As serious as Ryder gets.”
And that means? “Not the settling-down type?”
“He wants to spawn. Lucky seems like a good woman. I’d bet he makes it official sooner rather than later.” He sips his beer and I think he’s done, but then he adds, “But doubt it will stop him from banging groupies. He’s got a twenty-nine-year-old retired porn star he hooks up with every time we pass through Vegas the last ten years. Be interesting to see if he disappears for a few hours while Lucky’s on the tour with us.”
With no sign of Mick since we pulled into Little Rock, I’d suggested Lucky and I work on my voice rehab in my room. She’d hesitated to agree at first, taking that plump bottom lip in between her teeth while she mulled it over. When she’d said yes, I’d smiled in victory, doing a little internal fist pump.
But as I wait for the knock to come at my door, I realize it probably wasn’t the smartest of ideas. Privacy, a big bed, and a woman I want beneath me so badly, I’m fucking dreaming about her at night. Yeah…not too bright.
The full-of-myself part of me thinks if I pushed, there’s a good chance we’d wind up clawing each other’s clothes off. But I don’t want to be the other guy. She’s inside me, I want to be inside her. And, for a change, not just my cock.
A few minutes later, the knock comes and I open the door to find her standing there. She’s wearing white shorts and a tight white tank top that has the Rolling Stones’ iconic mouth made from crystals of some sort. I step aside for her to enter, and light from the tall windows streams in and hits her at just the right angle so her glossed lips sparkle as much as her shirt. Fuck. Definitely a bad idea.
