Lexi,
Thank you for auditioning for our band. We look forward to hearing more from you and seeing if you’ll make a good fit. Ethan’s recommendation could not have been stronger. Enjoy the next few days of quiet. Get some rest, enjoy the wine, use the spa, get lit at the hotel bar, and charge it all to the room. It’s on us.
-Dax, Brody, Adam, and Will
Wow.
Use the spa?
Done.
I call and book a massage for the morning. I make the appointment for nine—nice and early, but still eleven Nashville time. I’ll get used to the time change.
Being the responsible girl I am, I set my alarm for eight to ensure I have plenty of time for a shower in the morning before I head to my appointment.
It’s already seven, and I realize I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since a small salad I shoveled in before I boarded the plane.
I stare at the bathtub. It’s got whirlpool jets.
I debate ordering room service.
I check out the restaurants in the hotel and ultimately opt for the hotel bar. I don’t want to waste my makeover by sitting up in the room, and it’s a place where I can do a little people watching and order whatever food I want from their menu.
I check the mirror before I head down because you just never know who might be sitting in the hotel bar. My auburn locks flow in pretty waves around my shoulders. The dress the wardrobe people at Ashmark chose for me fits my figure like a glove, and the make-up a professional artist did for me is still in place.
I don’t just look pretty tonight. I feel pretty.
And it’s with all that confidence that I stride down toward the hotel bar.
It’s a Thursday night in Los Angeles, and the bar is more crowded than I would’ve imagined. All the tables are taken, but I spot an open stool at the bar.
It’s on the end, next to where the waitstaff rings in orders and waits for drinks so they can deliver them to their tables.
On the other side sits a man with a black t-shirt covering broad shoulders. I walk up and stand there for a second, unsure of what to do. He’s glued to his phone, and I don’t want to take his wife’s chair or anything.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask.
No response.
He’s still scrolling his phone, lost in his own little world. I see some tattoos on his arms as they rest on the bar.
“Excuse me,” I try again. I tap that broad shoulder, a little electric spark stinging my finger.
He blows out a sigh before he turns toward me with narrowed eyes. When his golden-chocolate irises meet my brown ones, though, they soften into something completely different. Surprise, maybe.
And a little bit of...heat.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it. The California sun is already getting to me.
My eyes fall on full lips and a square jaw lined with stubble. He has fairly short, thick hair that’s messy and stylish all at once, and he just might be the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on in my entire life.
And so completely and totally not my type.
Not that it matters.
“Yeah?” he asks, his voice deep and rich and goodness gracious I freaking love Los Angeles.
His dark eyes dip to my cleavage for a half a second, almost an involuntary act, and just as involuntarily, I find myself jutting out my breasts just a little, a habit to make them appear bigger.
I’m not, like, totally innocent all the time.
“Is this seat taken?” I repeat.
He turns a little and kicks it back with his foot. My eyes fall to his Motley Crue shirt.
“Is now,” he says, nodding toward it as if to tell me to take a seat.
He sets his phone down while I slide into the chair, unsure of what to say next because I’m suddenly nervous as sin, and thankfully I’m saved by the bartender, who nods at me and raises his brows in the universal sign that asks what are you having?
“A Long Island iced tea, please,” I say.
The bartender nods. “ID?”
I pull my license out of my purse to show him that I’m old enough to drink at twenty-five, and he slinks away. It’s that moment when I smell him, and it overwhelms my senses. It’s a clean, soapy scent mixed with something I can only describe as sexy man.
“Long Island?” he asks. “You here to get fucked up?”
I laugh. “Just enough to take the edge off.” Truth be told, I’m not much of a drinker. I ordered a Long Island because it sounded cool. I’ve never had one and I have no idea what’s even in it.
I’ll have the occasional glass of wine as long as it tastes more like fruit punch than wine, and I’ll put down a margarita or two every now and again...but alcohol tends to affect my voice, and I prefer to keep it strong.
“What are you having?” I ask.
“Miller Lite,” he says. He drains what’s left in his glass and holds it up when the bartender glances over.
I wrinkle my nose, and Motley Crue chuckles. “Is that a little country twang I hear?”
I smile. “Sure is. I’m visiting from Nashville.” I don’t say more than that. I signed a nondisclosure agreement, and he’s a stranger.
“I’m Gage,” he says. “Visiting from Vegas.”
“Lexi,” I say, and I stick out my hand to shake his.
His grip is firm and when I glance down at where our hands connect, I see long fingers and strong forearms. The kind with veins in them, which tells me he works with his hands. Or he works out. Either way, it’s sexy.
“So Lexi from Nashville,” he says. “Who are you here visiting?”
“Just some friends,” I say, hedging. “You?”
“I’m here for work,” he says.
“What line of work are you in?” I ask, even though I know the question will be returned and I’m not sure how to answer it.
“Sales,” he says vaguely. “You?”
“I’m a make-up artist.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and I suppose it’s not totally a lie. I do my own make-up every day, and most of the time it’s a lot of work. But it’s one of the few areas I know well enough if he starts asking me questions. “You a big Motley Crue fan?”
He glances down at his shirt and chuckles. “You could say that. Are you?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m more of a country girl, but I can appreciate a successful band when I see one.”
“Why am I not surprised that you’re a country girl?” he asks.
The bartender drops off my Long Island and Gage’s beer.
He holds his glass up in a toast. “To getting fucked up,” he says.
“To taking the edge off,” I insist as I clink my glass to his.
He laughs while I tip back the drink, and jeez Louise I had no idea Long Islands were so dang strong. I make a face as fire burns down my chest.
“Like it?” he asks.
“Delish,” I say.
“Have you ever had one?”
“No,” I admit.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five. You?”
“Twenty-seven, and I’ve had plenty of Long Islands.” He squints a little as if he’s recalling some memory. “I think I was fourteen when I had my first.”
“Fourteen?” My voice is a tad louder than I mean for it to be as I express my surprise at that.