Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
I stare at him, and while Naomi continues to tug at my tank top like a child and the bouncer waits for me to say something, I try to come up with other adjectives to describe this guy standing just to the side of me.
Handsome.
Yes, he definitely is, but that’s boring.
He’s hot. Very hot.
But that’s boring too.
He’s…enigmatic.
Yes.
Enigmatic. Mysterious, brooding…sexual. A modern Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester dressed in black jeans, a grey V-neck shirt, arms covered in tattoos. He looks sweaty, thick black hair sticking to his forehead. An eyebrow ring over a low arched brow. Wide jaw, steel-cut chin. Full lips. He’s currently biting the lower one as he stands there, looking me over as he pulls out his lighter.
And then I realize everyone is still looking at me.
“Are you in or out, lady?” the bouncer says impatiently.
I snap my attention back to him. “Lady?” I repeat while Naomi snorts. He obviously doesn’t know me.
“You say you’re with Magic 8 Ball?” the bouncer goes on.
“Um,” I say. I can feel Naomi’s eyes burning into my skull, wanting me to tell him to forget it. But then there’s this sexy stranger and I’m not normally one to fan myself over a hot guy but this guy is like my kryptonite, and he’s got my panties in a twist. Plus, he’s watching me with interest now as he lights his cigarette, his dark eyes lit up by the flame.
“Because I wasn’t told there was anyone on the list,” the bouncer adds with some finality. He crosses his arms across his chest for emphasis.
“That’s okay, we’ll just go,” Naomi says.
“You’re here to see Magic 8 Ball?” the sexy stranger asks, smoke spilling from his mouth. He has this British accent that makes me want to melt into a puddle right here, right now.
Naomi sighs. “Our friend Jane is the drummer.”
“You do realize it’s just a shitty cover band, right?” the guy says. I could watch his lips move and hear him talk in that sexy accent all night. He says “shitty” without pronouncing the Ts in the middle.
Naomi laughs, and she rarely laughs with strangers. “We know it’s a cover band. Whether it’s shitty or not, that remains to be seen. We haven’t seen them play before.”
“I’d save your money,” he says. “Though I guess if you’re on the list, you could get in for free…if you’re a sucker for punishment.”
“Not on the list,” the bouncer interjects.
“That bad, huh?” I joke to the sexy stranger.
He shrugs and looks off. He has this cageyness to him that only adds to his mystique, like he’s too cool for school but not even trying. “Their singer is a real arsehole. Total wanker. I’d stay away from the likes of him. Thinks he’s better than David Gahan.”
“Well, it is a Depeche Mode cover band, so I’ll give him a pass on that.” I pause, remembering that it’s actually Jane’s brother who is the singer of the band. I had no idea he was an…arse. “And anyway, like we said, we’re here for Jane. To support her. Be a good friend.”
He nods slowly, looking between the two of us with a look I can’t quite figure out. “Then she’s going to owe you a mad favor.”
“She’s worth it.”
His expression turns. It’s like he’s approving of me now.
I like it. I want his approval. God knows why.
Oh yeah. The dangerously handsome and edgy thing.
His lips twist into a smirk that somehow only turns on the charm. “What was your name again?”
“I never gave it. It’s Marina,” I tell him and shrug my shoulder back toward Naomi. “And that’s Naomi.”
“And you are?” Naomi asks him pointedly.
He grins. “Just an arsehole,” he says, taking a long drag of his cigarette and looking off down the street at the passing cars, their headlights briefly running over us.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, arsehole, but—” Naomi starts to say.
Suddenly the door to the venue opens again, the sound of instruments tuning, sound check in progress, ringing out into the night air. A guy with a Magic 8 Ball shirt and red handlebar mustache sticks his head out and waves at Mr. Arsehole.
“What the fuck are you doing, Laz? We’re going on, now.”
Laz?
“Your name is Laz?” Naomi asks. “You mean, like Jane’s brother, Lazarus? Like the singer of the damn band?”
He manages a tiny smile and takes out the pack, stubbing his cigarette out on it. “I’m coming,” he says to the ginger-mustached man, who makes a huffing sound and disappears back inside.
Then Laz taps the bouncer on the shoulder and points at us. “They’re with me.”
The bouncer looks like he’s about to ask him who he is but decides against it. He sighs and turns away, his bald head gleaming in the overhead light. “Fine.”
Laz looks back at us, gestures to the door. “You girls coming or what?”