Free Vintage Volume Two by Lisa Suzanne

I didn’t respond to his bantering.
    I shook my head.
    “What’s up?”
    I shrugged—not to be a smartass, but because I really didn’t know. I just knew what I felt. “Something feels off.”
    “Do you want to leave?”
    I shook my head as guilt washed over me. He was so sweet, always looking out for me and giving up anything and everything in order to protect me while he was on tour with one of the biggest bands in the world.
    I couldn’t take more from him despite the strange anxiety I felt. “I don’t want to take away the last after party from you. It’s fine.”
    “I could not care less about this party. All I care about is you.”
    I softened at his kind words—words that were exactly what I needed to hear.
    He pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a text, and then he grabbed my hand and led me back to the stairwell that took us down to Bourbon Street.
    “Where are we going?” I asked as we merged into the throng of people walking one of the most famous streets in America.
    I glanced around me. I was young enough that this should have been my scene. Drunk people hung off of balconies, calling down to people on the streets. Others meandered in and out of bars, carrying tall cups of beer or frozen drinks in red, white, and blue glasses a yard tall. Women flashed their tits to men on the balconies to earn themselves a string of plastic beads. Faces were painted with stars and flags.
    But instead of getting caught up in the raunchy fun, the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention as I feared Randy and whatever point he was trying to prove. I wasn’t sure that separating ourselves from my dad and his security team was the best idea, but we hadn’t gone far when Parker pulled me into a diner.
    It was quiet inside after the madness on the street. Parker pulled down the bill of his Sox cap, presumably to avoid being recognized after playing a huge show that was walking distance from where we stood.
    A waitress sat us, and we took a booth in the far corner. We sat together, both of us facing the door, me inside the booth and Parker on the outside. Regardless of what awaited us, I felt his protection. Always.
    “You want menus or just drinks?” the waitress asked. I checked her nametag: Tamara.
    “Menus,” Parker said. He glanced at me. “What are you drinking?”
    “Coke, please.” I smiled at the waitress, and then I watched in disgust while she ogled my boyfriend.
    “Coffee.” He kept his attention on his menu and not on the waitress, and I couldn’t help but press myself a little closer into his side.
    I glanced up at Tamara and earned myself a little glare. With that move, she managed to score herself a lower tip.
    “Cream and sugar?” Tamara asked, her voice suddenly a little more sultry than it had been moments earlier. Why did women feel the need to act like that around men who were clearly in relationships?
    I rolled my eyes as Parker answered, and Tamara left to get our drinks.
    I flipped through the menu, not looking up. “She wants you.”
    He chuckled. “So what? I want you.”
    I felt his lips at my temple, once again giving me comfort in only the way he could.
    She brought our drinks, and his attention was solely on me. We ordered pancakes, drenched them in syrup, and giggled through our meal, just the two of us. Waitresses named Tamara no longer existed. Randy’s anxiety-inducing presence no longer mattered. Whatever awaited me the next day at home was no longer an issue. It was just Parker and me, my boyfriend and his girlfriend, enjoying a date night together in the middle of Bourbon Street.
    Parker paid our bill, and then he sent a text. We had to wait for a reply before he would let me out of the booth.
    “Who are we waiting on?” I finally asked on a sigh as I played with the straw in my Coke.
    “George.”
    “What’s taking him so long?”
    Parker shrugged. “His responses are usually immediate.”
    Alarm bells sounded in my head. George was always on call.