Bang on Loosely Page 2

  My lips part, but before I can thank him for the shirt or figure out what to say to banish the anger from his eyes, he’s spun on his heel and pounded down the stairs, leaving me alone in the hall.

  Conscious that the shower whooshing away in the bathroom could go silent at any moment, I pull on the long-sleeved blue shirt. It’s petal-soft against my skin and smells like Cutter—smoky but sweet and oh, so masculine, a fact that doesn’t seem fair, considering how much eyeliner the man wears.

  There was still a little smudged under his lashes this morning, adding to his fallen angel vibe. With his perfectly structured face, striking eyes, and full lips, Cutter is so beautiful it’s painful to look at him sometimes.

  Especially now, when I’m feeling like such a jerk.

  But he’s got it all wrong. I never thought I was too good for him. Not once. Secretly, I’ve always assumed it was the other way around, and that Cutter knew he was out of my league and always would be.

  Yes, I’ve grown into my too-long legs, and things on the figure front turned out better than I could have imagined when I was a scrawny kid who looked like a zipper when I turned sideways and stuck out my tongue. I have curves, and skin that glows a warm golden copper after I’ve spent time in the sun, and there are days when I don’t mind that my unruly hair often looks like it would be more at home on a Muppet.

  But I’m still just a normal, reasonably attractive human being who spends most of my time in loose pants and a chef’s jacket, and who has gone for weeks without shaving my legs if it’s winter and there isn’t anyone special in my life.

  Or if it’s summer, and there isn’t anyone special in my life.

  I’m a busy woman, and sometimes I need that ten minutes I’d spend shaving to pay bills or throw a chicken in to brine for a dinner party or play Dr. Mario on my phone in the bath because video games are even more fun when you’re soaking in hot water.

  I’m the kind of person who prioritizes video game time ahead of prettying myself for the opposite sex. I am not a rock god who was born so ridiculously beautiful that he’s never even had to try to look good. Why should he when he wakes up so gorgeous that improving himself would be a crime against the gods?

  No mere mortal should be as gorgeous as Cutter Comstock. But for some reason, he truly seems to believe that I consider myself too good for him somehow, and to have been hurt by the assumption.

  Who knew Cutter had feelings?

  At least feelings I might be capable of hurting…

  Even that night at the beach, he hadn’t seemed wounded by anything I’d said—just surprised to have his offer to go somewhere and get naked together turned down.

  But that was before he realized I was the girl he used to tease—all grown up. Before we’d become friendly acquaintances, if not actual friends. Before he told me about the tough time he had growing up, clashing with his dad, and explained that his dickish high school behavior had been a side effective of hating his life, not any real animosity toward me or anyone else.

  That was before I’d laughed with him and kissed him and raced him back to his house to see who could get their clothes off first.

  As I pad down to the bathroom on the first floor and quickly change into the dryer-warm clothes Cutter left there for me, my stomach knots into a ball of regret. I’ve made up my mind to head into the kitchen and apologize to Cutter—quickly, before his dad comes downstairs—but when I creep toward the kitchen, I hear soft male laughter, followed by Cutter whispering, “Seriously, dude. Huge mistake. I won’t name names, but let’s just say I should have cut my dick off and mailed it to our first tour stop. Nothing good is going to happen to me, or my dick, in this town. That bus can’t get me out of here fast enough.”

  I pause by the doorway, out of sight, silently warring with myself.

  I deserve that. I passed out before I could make good on any of my sexy promises to Cutter, and I was a cranky naked mole rat to him this morning. If our situations were reversed, I’d probably be complaining to a friend, too.

  But then Cutter adds, “And this girl wouldn’t fucking shut up, man. She talked the entire time I was getting her off. So damned annoying,” and I shrivel inside my skin.

  I didn’t talk the entire time!

  At least, I don’t think I did… I know I can be a blabbermouth sometimes, especially when I’m nervous or excited, but I’ve been making a conscious effort to talk less and listen more. And even if I did talk too much, it’s cruel of Cutter to share that with a third party, to mock me and abuse the trust I placed in him when we got naked together.

  But I should have known better.

  Cutter doesn’t deserve my trust or access to my naked self, and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve an apology. He’s still the same asshole he was when we were kids, and last night was just a mistake on the way to the perfect soufflé, one I intend to learn from, so I’ll never repeat it.

  Walking on tiptoe, I back away from the kitchen and fetch my boots from beside the door. I’m shoving my feet inside as a deep voice calls from upstairs, “I’m going to stay up here, guys. So no need to stress. We can forget all about the bathroom and have a fresh start the next time your friend comes over, Cutter.”

  But there won’t be a next time, and if I respond, Cutter will know I’m still in his stupid house, with his not-at-all-stupid dad who is way nicer than Cutter gives him credit for, even if he does hate rock and roll.

  Without a word, I quietly push open the door and flee into the cool autumn morning. I dash down the street, past the rapidly gentrifying “bad” part of Hidden Kill Bay where hipster couples are pushing baby strollers and sipping craft coffee and aim myself toward the bus stop by the marina.

  The clouds from last night have burned away in bright October sunshine that seems to promise a glorious day with no mistakes in it. And if I do make a mistake, at least it will be a new one.

  That’s one good thing about me—I never screw up the same way twice.

  Vowing to put Cutter in my rearview and never look back, I hop on the bus, head home, take the world’s longest shower, and go for a drive along the shore. By the time I get back from a delightful afternoon off, spent browsing the shops at a village up the coast and getting lobster rolls and gelato at my favorite beach shack, I’m no longer dwelling on my lapse in judgment.

  In the days that follow, I move on with my life, enjoying a lovely New England autumn, and forget that I ever felt the teensiest bit of compassion for Cutter Comstock.

  In fact, I don’t think about him much at all.

  Yes, my pride takes a jab to the tender bits every time I catch sight of him swaggering around town, but it’s a fleeting pain. And then he’s gone, out of my life, back on tour, causing trouble other people have to deal with.

  I truly think I’ve turned the page on that shameful entry in my diary and moved on.

  But I’m not nearly as smart as I think I am.

  Some mistakes don’t stay in the past.

  Some of them, especially ones with glittering green eyes and magical hands, come back to haunt you.

  Chapter Two

  Cutter

  Six months later…

  You’ve got to be a fool to decide to get married at all, but only a real pair of idiots would plan to get hitched outside in April in Maine.

  The chances that this afternoon would be cold, soggy, and miserable were close to one hundred percent.

  One hundred percent.

  Yet somehow, Bridget and Shep managed to score a sunny sixty-five-degree day with just enough of a light breeze to send Bridget’s brown curls drifting into her face as Shep moves in to kiss his bride.

  He reaches up, tucking her hair behind her ear with a sappy grin before pressing his lips to hers with tenderness that sets every pair of ovaries in the garden to exploding with juicy popping sounds you can just make out over the string quartet’s cover of Otis Redding’s “That’s How Strong My Love Is.”

  Even some of the men are tearing up.

/>   I cut my eyes Colin’s way to find him discreetly swiping at his eyes before leaning over to kiss the top of his girlfriend, Kirby’s, head. She looks up at him, cupping his cheek in her hand, and mouthing, “I love you so much,” before they start making out like they need the oxygen from each other’s mouths to live.

  Gag.

  They’re even grosser than Shep and Bridget.

  But at least they’ve had the sense not to get hitched. Yet.

  For all their big talk about not needing legal paperwork to make their love official, I have a feeling I’ll be sitting through another one of these exercises in stupidity before too long. They’re going to start trying for a kid after the European leg of our tour wraps up in August, and there’s nothing like a baby to make previously sane people decide getting the law involved in their love life is a good idea.

  But the “safety” of marriage is limited at best and a bald-ass lie at worst. For fifty percent of marriages, all that legal document will do is make it harder to leave a crappy situation when they decide they want out.

  And there is always a way out.

  So why bother making a “forever” promise in the first place?

  It truly baffles me, but Shep and Bridget are so blissed out that I can’t help being happy for them.

  Especially after the gossip I caught floating around the rehearsal dinner last night…

  Megan is getting a divorce from that scumbag mob lawyer she married.

  Megan is getting a divorce, and suddenly, dreams I thought were dead and buried are back on the operating table ready to be jolted back to life. The only woman I’ve ever loved will be single again soon, and I’m not going to botch my second chance with her. I’ll show her that I can be everything she wants, everything she needs, even if it means eating a hot, sloppy serving of humble pie and kissing up to one of my least favorite people.

  Theodora Devi…

  What a royal pain in the ass she is. But she’s my best bet, the only girl who can help me solve my bad reputation problem without the risk of collateral damage.

  As Theo files down the aisle behind Shep and Bridget, looking undeniably hot in her hideous yellow bridesmaid’s dress, I force a smile.

  How is she pulling off that color, let alone all the ruffles on that skirt?

  It’s the chest, I decide. Those ridiculously high, round, gorgeous hood ornaments transform the frumpy into the fabulous. They’re the perfect shape, the perfect weight, the perfect overflowing handful, and I would remember them fondly if they weren’t attached to a woman who thinks I’m the human equivalent of phlegm smeared on the bottom of her shoe.

  As if to prove me correct, Theo meets my gaze with a curl of her lip and quickly looks away, telling me things haven’t changed at all between us in the sixth months I’ve been on tour.

  But that’s okay. It’s perfect, in fact. Theo hating me is part of the plan. I don’t want to risk hurting some innocent woman’s feelings, but Theo doesn’t have feelings, and she isn’t nearly as innocent as she looks.

  That woman is a stone-cold shark out for number one.

  But that will also work out nicely for me—I have something the shark wants. Now all I have to do is chum the water and enjoy the feeding frenzy that follows.

  I wait to make my move until after dinner and dessert are served and cleared away—sitting quietly through the toasts as Zack, Shep’s one and only groomsman, goes on about love and friendship, and Theo, Bridget’s lone bridesmaid, waxes poetic about dreams coming true—biding my time until the band cranks up and everyone hits the dance floor.

  Snagging two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, I amble around the perimeter of the tent set up on the botanical garden’s back lawn, stalking Theo like the unsuspecting prey she is.

  “No thank you, Cutter,” she says as I approach from behind her, sensing my presence without turning to look over her shoulder.

  Okay, so maybe not-so-unsuspecting prey, but I’m still going to get what I came for—one way or another.

  “You sure about that?” I come to stand beside her, holding out one of the gently sweating glasses. “I’m pretty sure the maid of honor is obligated to get drunk and disorderly at her best friend’s wedding.”

  “Nope. I’m good.” She sighs wistfully as she watches Shep spin Bridget in slow circles on the floor, Bridget’s head on her new husband’s chest. “I want to remember every minute of tonight.”

  “They’re good together,” I observe, tossing back one drink and then the other, blinking at the sting of the bubbles at the back of my nose as I set the empty glasses on the floor by a tent post.

  “They are.” Theo casts a judgmental glance my way. “You planning to skip the breakfast tomorrow, Mr. Drunky?”

  “Nope. I’ll be there. With bells on.”

  Theo arches a brow. “Then I’d advise you to slow down. The rest of us would like to send Bridget and Shep off on their honeymoon without anyone puking in the potted plants and ruining it for everyone.”

  “I won’t ruin anything. I can hold my liquor.”

  She props a bossy hand on her hip. “I’ve been planning this menu for weeks, Cutter. If you spoil it, I’m going to stab you in the heart with my quiche server.”

  Tutting beneath my breath, I shift closer until the sleeve of my suit coat brushes the sleeve of her dress. “So violent.”

  “Only with you,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t move away, making me wonder if she still feels it, too, this crazy sexual energy that surges between us every time we drift into each other’s orbit.

  I can’t stand this woman, but I would bang her again in a heartbeat.

  But getting Theo into my bed isn’t my first priority—it’s not even on my list of must haves—so I force my gaze from the delicious cleavage above her dress and back to her narrowed eyes.

  “I’m flattered, but you’re going to have to dial back the hostility if we’re going to make this work.”

  She exhales, her brows furrowing. “Make what work?”

  “Our fake engagement. The one that will prove to my ex that I’m ready to settle down and be part of a serious relationship.”

  Theo’s snort becomes a laugh, then a long, laboring cough, and finally a laugh again. “Oh my God.” She braces a hand on my arm, her frigid fingers chilling my skin through my coat and dress shirt. “For a second, I thought you were serious.”

  “I am serious. I need a fake fiancée, and you’re the best woman for the job.” I take her hand between both of mine, molding my warm palms around her frozen digits. “Are you secretly a vampire, Devi? Or a zombie?”

  “No,” she says, sniffing as the last of her laughter fades away. “Just cold-blooded.”

  My lips curve. “Sounds accurate.”

  Her gaze narrows as she yanks her hand from mine. “Again, only with you. And if I’m so cold-blooded, why on earth would you ask me to do something crazy like this? I’m going to say no, by the way. Hell no.”

  “No, you’re not,” I say pleasantly, recapturing her hands and bringing them to my mouth, blowing warm air over her icy fingertips. “You’re going to say yes because I have something that you want. That’s why this is so perfect, Theodora. I have something you want… You have something I want… With a little teamwork, we’ll both walk away happier than pigs in slop.”

  “Pigs are intelligent animals,” she says, watching me squeeze her fingertips with a distrustful expression. “They don’t enjoy wallowing in their own feces. They roll around in mud to protect their delicate skin from the sun.”

  “Fascinating, but off topic.”

  She huffs. “It’s not off topic. There is no topic. I’m not going to help you trick some girl into thinking you’re an emotionally stable human.”

  “It wouldn’t be a trick. With her, I would be emotionally stable.” Theo tries to pull her hands away, but I hold tight, leaning down to let my breath play over her slowly warming skin as I add, “Megan is the only person I’ve ever wanted to spend my
life with. I screwed that up the first time, but now I have a chance to make it right. With a little help, by the time her divorce is final, she’ll see me in a new light, as a viable option for her future.”

  Theo’s forehead wrinkles. “Megan Galante?”

  “Megan soon-to-be Blankenship again,” I confirm.

  “But she’s in the middle of an ugly divorce.” Theo drops her voice to a horrified whisper. “And isn’t her ex part of the mob? I mean, maybe it’s just a rumor, but—”

  “It’s not a rumor. He’s a mob lawyer not an enforcer, but the ties go back a few generations.”

  Theo’s eyes go even wider than usual. “Fork that, Cutter. You need to stay away from her, at least until the divorce is final. And probably after. From everything I’ve heard, her ex is crazy possessive, as well as just ordinary crazy and dangerous.”

  “Not a chance. I’m going to be there for Megan as much as she’ll let me. But I can’t do that if she thinks I’m just trying to get her in the sack. I need Megan—and her psycho soon-to-be ex—to see me as her friend first, and something more when the time is right.”

  “This is a bad idea,” Theo says, nibbling on her lip. “And you realize she has a kid, right? A daughter, I think, but definitely still a baby. And still in diapers.”

  “I can handle diapers.”

  Theo chokes on a laugh. “No, you can’t.”

  “Can too.”

  Her expression goes dubious to the point of being insulting. “Have you ever changed a diaper?”

  “I can play ‘Eruption’ by Van Halen on the guitar with my eyes closed. I’m pretty sure my fingers are clever enough to peel and stick a diaper tab in the right place. But you’re getting ahead of yourself, Squirt.”