“It’s my job. Plus Nikki invited me. I told her I’d rather stay here with you.” I rise up on my toes so that I can whisper in his ear. “I’m hoping you’ll give me a very thorough massage. Since I’m not getting my spa visit, I mean.”
“You can count on it,” he says as his hand slides around to cup my ass. He squeezes, and I squeal, then laugh. “You’re going to need one after standing for a few hours.”
I take a step back, eyeing him dubiously. “Standing?”
“No seats at The Rafters,” he says. “But lots of good beer and definitely a lot of good music.”
He looks so excited that I can hardly deny him, especially considering the hell he’s been living through. “All right,” I say. “It’s a date.”
“Then we’ll do it up right. I’ll pick you up at seven. The show starts at ten. We’ll have dinner and get there by nine-thirty. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Should I invite Cass and Siobhan? I’ve got the two extra tickets.”
The question—asked so simply and with complete sincerity—sends an unexpected wave of pleasure washing over me.
“Yeah,” I say. “That would be great.” And then I ease back into his arms and kiss him softly. “As a matter of fact, you’re great, too.”
nineteen
When we’d first arrived at The Rafters—a nondescript building near the North Hollywood/Burbank border—I’d assumed that Edward had pulled up at the wrong location. It had the appearance of a shack that someone had put up in their backyard and then painted black. Albeit a very large shack.
Jackson assured us that this was the place, though, and when I took a closer look, that was clear enough. Not only was there a sandwich board sign in the parking lot announcing Dominion Gate, but there was also a line of concertgoers that snaked around the building.
I’d glanced at Jackson, dubious, but he’d only laughed and told me it would be fun.
Honestly, he was right.
Now that we’re inside, I’m not certain how the place managed to pass all the various required inspections because I am absolutely certain that the reverb from the band’s bass is going to make all the walls collapse on us. Even the concrete floor is moving, though that may be an illusion. Or it may be the result of hundreds of people dancing madly to the earsplitting music.
But despite all that, I am having a great time—and considering we are jammed in like sardines in an under-air-conditioned building and standing way too close to the speakers, that says a lot. About the music, maybe. But it’s more about Jackson. He’s clearly having a great time—worry free, loose. Hell, almost boyish.
And I’ll put up with a lot to see him happy.
The crowd is thick, and I’m smushed in between him and Cass, who leans over to say something to me. I have no idea what, though, because I can’t hear a damn thing. I hold up my hands in question, and she rolls her eyes, then points to a girl who’s dancing a few people away. At first I think Cass is checking out the girl—which seems very un-Cassidy-like considering Siobhan is jamming to the music at her opposite side.
Then I realize that the girl is taking pictures with her camera phone. Not of the band, but of Jackson.
I’d like to think that’s because he looks so incredibly hot in faded, threadbare jeans and a short-sleeved Henley shirt that sticks to his sweat-slicked body in a way that makes me sigh.
Unfortunately, I know otherwise. Someone had recognized him as we were coming in—and I’d heard the rumble of gossip about “that architect who offed the producer” as it rolled through the crowd before the opening band took the stage.
No one has actually approached us, though, and so Jackson is taking it in stride.
I look back at Cass and shrug, silently letting her know we’re not going to worry about it. Tonight is about the four of us having fun, and so long as nobody gets right in his face, they can take all the snaps they want.
By the time the concert ends, I’m practically deaf. I’m also covered in a thin layer of sweat and the sleeveless mock turtleneck that I’d paired with a thin leather jacket and matching mini skirt is clinging to my body. I’m also thinking that despite the cool November evening, the leather skirt was a mistake, as it’s stuck to both my ass and thighs.
And as for my feet—well, I have no one to blame but myself. Jackson warned me we’d be standing. Apparently my favorite low black sandals aren’t the all-purpose shoes I’d thought they were.
“You can count on it,” he says as his hand slides around to cup my ass. He squeezes, and I squeal, then laugh. “You’re going to need one after standing for a few hours.”
I take a step back, eyeing him dubiously. “Standing?”
“No seats at The Rafters,” he says. “But lots of good beer and definitely a lot of good music.”
He looks so excited that I can hardly deny him, especially considering the hell he’s been living through. “All right,” I say. “It’s a date.”
“Then we’ll do it up right. I’ll pick you up at seven. The show starts at ten. We’ll have dinner and get there by nine-thirty. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Should I invite Cass and Siobhan? I’ve got the two extra tickets.”
The question—asked so simply and with complete sincerity—sends an unexpected wave of pleasure washing over me.
“Yeah,” I say. “That would be great.” And then I ease back into his arms and kiss him softly. “As a matter of fact, you’re great, too.”
nineteen
When we’d first arrived at The Rafters—a nondescript building near the North Hollywood/Burbank border—I’d assumed that Edward had pulled up at the wrong location. It had the appearance of a shack that someone had put up in their backyard and then painted black. Albeit a very large shack.
Jackson assured us that this was the place, though, and when I took a closer look, that was clear enough. Not only was there a sandwich board sign in the parking lot announcing Dominion Gate, but there was also a line of concertgoers that snaked around the building.
I’d glanced at Jackson, dubious, but he’d only laughed and told me it would be fun.
Honestly, he was right.
Now that we’re inside, I’m not certain how the place managed to pass all the various required inspections because I am absolutely certain that the reverb from the band’s bass is going to make all the walls collapse on us. Even the concrete floor is moving, though that may be an illusion. Or it may be the result of hundreds of people dancing madly to the earsplitting music.
But despite all that, I am having a great time—and considering we are jammed in like sardines in an under-air-conditioned building and standing way too close to the speakers, that says a lot. About the music, maybe. But it’s more about Jackson. He’s clearly having a great time—worry free, loose. Hell, almost boyish.
And I’ll put up with a lot to see him happy.
The crowd is thick, and I’m smushed in between him and Cass, who leans over to say something to me. I have no idea what, though, because I can’t hear a damn thing. I hold up my hands in question, and she rolls her eyes, then points to a girl who’s dancing a few people away. At first I think Cass is checking out the girl—which seems very un-Cassidy-like considering Siobhan is jamming to the music at her opposite side.
Then I realize that the girl is taking pictures with her camera phone. Not of the band, but of Jackson.
I’d like to think that’s because he looks so incredibly hot in faded, threadbare jeans and a short-sleeved Henley shirt that sticks to his sweat-slicked body in a way that makes me sigh.
Unfortunately, I know otherwise. Someone had recognized him as we were coming in—and I’d heard the rumble of gossip about “that architect who offed the producer” as it rolled through the crowd before the opening band took the stage.
No one has actually approached us, though, and so Jackson is taking it in stride.
I look back at Cass and shrug, silently letting her know we’re not going to worry about it. Tonight is about the four of us having fun, and so long as nobody gets right in his face, they can take all the snaps they want.
By the time the concert ends, I’m practically deaf. I’m also covered in a thin layer of sweat and the sleeveless mock turtleneck that I’d paired with a thin leather jacket and matching mini skirt is clinging to my body. I’m also thinking that despite the cool November evening, the leather skirt was a mistake, as it’s stuck to both my ass and thighs.
And as for my feet—well, I have no one to blame but myself. Jackson warned me we’d be standing. Apparently my favorite low black sandals aren’t the all-purpose shoes I’d thought they were.
