had to have him. Screw the man-free sabbatical.
Flo tugged the microphone from her grasp. “Where’s the sound guy gone?”
“He’ll be back in….” She tried to estimate how long it took a man to pound one out, then shrugged. “About, say, ten minutes?”
“Oh, here he comes.” Flo beamed, pointing across to the men’s restrooms.
Sure enough, the guy headed back to duty. He took his position back at the karaoke machine and sat, wiping a hand on his overalls.
Wondering what might be smeared on his clothes, she nearly gagged.
“‘Shout,’” Flo demanded. “I’m singing ‘Shout.’ Chop-chop.”
Zoe left the stage for Flo to take over and swirled to the bar. She grabbed her beer, which seemed fuller than when she’d left it.
“Is this even mine?”
Steve nodded. “On the house, love.” He leaned over the bar and tipped his chin. “You ever thought about singing for clubs and that? We could use you in ’ere on Saturday nights. Regular gig. Interested?”
“Sorry, Steve, singing is just a hobby now, and I’m here just for a short time. But thanks for the compliment.”
He nodded with a gesture for her to glance over her shoulder. “He liked your performance, too. Look at him. All smitten.”
She turned, hoping for Dylan to be standing yonder. But alas, no. David waved in their direction from a few tables behind them with Betty and Thomas, and he mouthed, “Come join us.”
She downed the drink, pulled out a note from her pocket, and waved it at the bartender. “Another, Steve. Make it something stronger.”
“Drinks are on the house tonight, love. Keep singing like that and you can have a lifetime tab.” Steve poured her the shot and placed it on the counter. She drank it and slammed the glass on the counter. “Another.”
Steve grinned. “Sure. I’ll keep ’em coming, how’s about that?”
Flo finished her rendition of Lulu’s “Shout,” all screech and boobs.
Dylan hopped on the stage and introduced the next singer in waiting. “Here’s the yoga king again himself, singing a totally apt song for him. So put your hands, and your tips, yes, I said TIPS not tits, together for David wondering if we think he’s sexy.”
David strutted about singing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” He wiggled his hips, he blew kisses, and he made it ever so obvious he was into Zoe.
Dylan stormed up to her, his mouth clenched and his stare unnerving. He stole her drink and gave it back to Steve.
“Hey, I was drinking that.”
“You be careful with that one. He’s after getting you drunk so you’ll kiss him.”
“No, he liked my singing.”
“You mean that bump and grind session? Yes, every man here enjoyed your performance.”
Steve cleared his throat and diverted his gaze to the floor. “It’s true. I was hoping for some action.”
Dylan shook his head. “See. I think you need to sober up.”
“I do not.”
“ Ia , you do.” He entwined his fingers in hers and dragged her into the beer garden where she’d escaped to earlier for alone time.
He pushed the door open and swung her out into the cold air. The brisk night sent shudders through her, and her nipples tightened.
Freeing herself from his grip, she crossed her arms over her chest and hollered, “What do you think you’re doing?”
He perched on a nearby table and turned a patio heater on. “Come stand over here. It’s cold tonight.”
She shook her head.
“Love, don’t bite your nose off to spite your face. Come hither.”
Hesitant, she inched forward.
“I said, come here,” he growled, pulling on her hand.
“Dylan, what has gotten into you?”
“You. You and your sexy, sassy attitude and your blonde hair and pale blue eyes and your husky voice and those fucking dance moves of yours. I didn’t think I would last the song.”
“Me? You’re the one with the magic hips.”
He tightened his grip on her and pulled her between his legs, his thick thighs enveloping her. “I dunno
Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts