To Hell in a Coach Bag Read online

  "Uh, yeah," I answered lamely. "We... uh... got lost. We were supposed to be at a party backstage, and we were trying to find a bathroom. Then we got turned around. Right, Samantha?"

  "Yeah. We're bad with directions."

  Remembering our circuitous route to the hotel earlier, I sputtered. I tried to hold it in, but I couldn't and burst into a full out laugh.

  "All right, ladies." He gave us a good-natured grin, spreading his arms out to herd us back up the stairs. "I think you'd better go now." He had a nice voice, soothing.

  "Oh, sure. Oh, you want us to go this way." I continued to fake being lost, even though Mr. Handsome obviously pegged us.

  I glanced back when we reached the landing. He had his hands resting on the stair's railings and was hanging his head between them, laughing at us. Looking up, he caught my eye, and I was breathless. He was so unbelievably hot. Sam clamored on up ahead of me, unaware I had stopped. The nameless roadie and I stared at each other for several seconds before I forced myself to speak.

  "Goodbye," I murmured, wondering over the tug of regret gripping my core. He straightened, and I worried he could hear the blood pounding through my veins. I got the feeling he might be different from what you would expect from someone in the rock world. Maybe not simply out for a good time like they all seemed to be. There was more to him somehow. As strange as it sounds, through even our brief encounter, I got the feeling when he played, he played for keeps.

  "See ya." He flashed an easy grin, his teeth extraordinarily white. I turned and hurried after Sam. We scooted past security again then headed back into the main corridor.

  Sam exhaled. "Okay, what now?"

  I wondered what the roadie's story was. "Hmm?"

  "In your grand scheme to meet Chase? Where to now?"

  "Oh, umm..."

  "You're not giving up because that guy caught us are you?"

  Was I?

  "No. No, of course not. There has to be a way. Let's walk on and see if we can find another entrance."

  "Okay, but these shoes have to go." She slipped off her cheetah-skin heels.

  "Good thinking, girlfriend." I smiled, putting our run-in with the roadie behind us. I yanked off my boots, and we both rolled up our jeans, giving our sleazy rock and roll outfits an air of Elly May Clampett. We strolled—Samantha barefoot, me in black thigh-highs—around the auditorium. When we passed a group of guys, we heard them say Chase and the band were going to Shoeless Joe's across the street. Score! We did an about face and headed for an exit.

  * * *

  Shoeless Joe's was packed. We waded upstream to get a drink at the bar then got a spot, of sorts, where we could lean against a brass railing near the dance floor. A group of guys standing next to us cast glances our way. Sam started complaining about how much her feet hurt. Mine ached, too. My ankles were weak and wobbled like I'd been ice skating all night. My toes rivaled for the title of King of Pain. Not only were they crammed into narrow confines, but the majority of my weight was concentrated on them, and the balls of my feet burned where they made contact with the boots.

  One of the men, who wore a tan sports coat and a receding hairline, cooed at Samantha, ushering her over to a stool he'd found somewhere. "Come here, beautiful. I'll massage your feet for you." And without further ado, he did just that. His circle opened to allow me in. Sam was in her element now, surrounded by interested men, which was repetitive since any man would be interested around her.

  A cute, shorter guy in a long, black coat shook our hands. "Hi. I'm Kyle."

  Sam let out a yelp, examining her feet. "Ouch! You bit me. I can't believe you bit me!" She yanked her toe out of the man's mouth—the man who from then on out became forever known as Terry the Toe-Sucker—and started to rub it. "Geez! That hurt."

  Terry the Toe-Sucker drew her off to one side, presumably to apologize. I kept my eye on her.

  "So, are you girls from here?" Kyle was asking.

  "Uhh, what? Oh. No. We're from Bloomington. About two hours from here." I craned my neck to see around someone who obstructed my view of Sam. "We're lunch ladies," I threw out in way of explanation.

  The girls always laughed that I inserted this into any early conversation with people we met at the bars. It was a good opener. People always had strong feelings about lunch ladies, either good or bad, and it was sort of a funny job.

  "Really?" Kyle seemed interested, although his eyes kept going to Samantha. "Can I get you another drink?"

  "Sure. Thanks."

  "What are you drinking?"

  "I'm switching to tequila."

  His eyebrows rose, and he gave me a nod as a sign of respect. "And Samantha?"

  I was impressed he remembered her name.

  "She'll take a Miller Lite."

  He smiled at that and started fighting his way to the bar.

  Another one of the guys stepped into the conversational void Kyle left, introducing himself. I don't remember exactly what his name was, but he was cute, with curly hair. He became, for reasons that will be shared later, Mr. Handsy, or, at times, The Guy with the Hands. As it turned out, our whole group was made up of Canadian hockey referees, although I didn't detect an accent among them.

  The bar was playing Chase Hatton music, and not only the songs played on the radio, either, but even obscure ones. Of course, I knew all the words, and, perhaps because of the shot of tequila I downed, I kept saying—rather loudly, I think—"This is a great song!" The Guy with the Hands started singing one of the songs with me, and, impressed by his knowledge and plain excited someone else knew one, I started singing and dancing with him.

  Then he did the strangest thing. He put his hands under my hair and lifted it as he massaged my neck and scalp. It felt incredible, like all the nerve endings up there had rolled over and gone to sleep. His hands were strong, masterful, as he worked my tired muscles. So, this strange man was running his hands through my hair and I was letting him. I couldn't help myself. It felt so good, and I simply melted into it.

  He put his hands on my hips, and my heart rate ticked upward. An instant sweat coated my palms, and my stomach began a quiet but persistent rebellion. On the pretense of telling Sam something, I moved away. But he must have shifted too, because later he was behind me, dancing and drawing me into him by the hips, singing again, in my ear. A little flattered someone seemed to be into me and not Samantha, I didn't move away at first. Then, as a joke, Kyle and The Quiet One—one of the refs who hadn't said more than a few words all night—came over and sandwiched me, pretending—poorly—that they knew the words, too.

  All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, some strange guy from another table broke in, grabbed me, and started dancing. "That's my wife," he yelled. His friends laughed. He let go of me and stumbled back to his table, but his words were like a slap in the face.

  "Sam, let's go to the bathroom." She was being monopolized by Terry, who didn't seem at all her type. She usually went for the young, buff guys. A body was very important to her. I found out later she spent most of the evening stroking the poor guy's ego.

  "I'm good-looking, right? You're into me?" Little did he know he stood a snowball's chance in Tahiti with my gorgeous girlfriend.

  I practically ran into the bathroom, Sam on my heels. I rushed to the sink, gripping the sides, the cool porcelain bracing.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I don't know."

  "Bullshit. What's wrong? Did you have too much to drink? Are you feeling sick?"

  I couldn't tell her the truth, that the guy pretending to be my husband brought on a wave of guilt so strong it swamped me. "Yeah. Well, sort of. Just really hot."

  She ripped a paper towel from the holder and wet it, holding it to my forehead. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, not allowing myself to think. Breathe in, breathe out. You are not going to fall apart. You came here to have fun, and damn it, you're going to have fun. Even if it kills you. It's been five years since Darren died. You need to get over it. I breathed in and breathed out.
I thought of my daughter, Tabitha. I missed her. She was probably home in bed in her cupcake pajamas. You couldn't get the things off her. I smiled and opened my eyes.

  "I'm better," I said weakly.

  Sam still frowned. "Are you sure?"

  The blood returned to my face. "Yeah. I don't want to ruin everything for you."

  "What? Are you kidding?" Sam inspected herself in the mirror and messed with her hair for a second before turning to me. "These guys are shady."

  "Do you think so? They seem pretty harmless."

  "Oh, no. They are shady all the way. I can't believe he stuck my sweaty, dirty toe into his mouth. I mean, we were walking all over the auditorium. Who knows what I picked up on my feet?"

  I chuckled. "Did he really hurt you?"

  "Yeah! Bastard. Hurt like hell." She slipped her foot out of the pumps, swinging her size nine up on the sink. "I can't see any marks though."

  "Are you sure he doesn't have rabies?"

  She laughed. "I wouldn't put it past him. That Kyle is kind of cute, though."

  I glanced in the mirror. All of the evening's activities had taken the life out of my hair. I caught her eye in the reflection. "I think he likes you, too."

  She ignored that remark and slipped her shoe back on. "Are you sure you're okay now?"

  "Nothing another shot won't cure." I hooked my arm through hers and tried to give her a reassuring smile. "You know, Chase could be arriving any minute. Let's get out there, Toots."

  Chapter 2

  I sallied up to our group—strange they had become our group—and asked who needed a drink. The guys appeared stunned, but finally came up with a few orders. I went to get them. Samantha didn't understand why I felt compelled to buy a round after someone bought drinks for us. I figured I owed them, but her philosophy was, "If they're dumb enough to buy me a beer, I don't owe them anything." I knew some guys held certain expectations if they bought you a drink, and saw a few get pissed off when Samantha snubbed them after helping to drink down their paycheck. I walked back, handed out my drinks, and threw back a shot with Samantha. I refused to let what happened earlier dampen things.

  The second shot hit me quickly. I had one hand on the counter opposite the bar and was sort of dancing with myself when my partner snuck up behind me again. This time I dissolved into it, letting my hips move fluidly, pressing against him. He began rubbing my arms. It had been so long since I had a man's strong hands on me. We swayed together to the music for a while, then I needed to go to the bathroom for real.

  When I came out, a psst noise made me turn my head to see my dance partner behind a door marked exit. I laughed. What was he up to? He signaled for me to follow him. I glanced back. Sam and Terry had rejoined the group. Curious, I turned to follow him. On the other side of the door a short, well-lit hallway led to a glass exit door. A payphone hung from one wall, a relic from times past.

  "What are you—?" My sentence was never finished as he grabbed my hips and drew me to him, covering my mouth with his. What was this? I'd said maybe five sentences to the guy all night. Sure, I danced with him, but... For a second a wave of panic began to rise. Maybe he dragged me in here to rape me. But what he was doing didn't feel like rape. He brought his hands over the back of my thighs and up to my ass, and, I have to admit, a familiar but long-missed heat washed over me. I pushed against him a little, but he spun me around, and backed me up against the wall, burying his face in my hair.

  "You smell good." He pulled away and smiled at me.

  My mind spun, the alcohol like the kid running alongside a merry-go-round, pushing it faster. The heat of his body as it pressed against mine was both soothing and arousing. His hands slid behind me again, and it was like he was diving into me, fingers gliding over the denim to places that shouldn't be touched by strangers. And my body responded, unbidden. He bent in and placed his mouth against my ear.

  The wet noise of his lips parting preceded the raw need in his words and sent a tingle through me. "I want you." His voice was deep and vibrated with sexual tension. He slid his hands up my sides. His fingers clutched my back, his thumbs stopping right beneath my breasts. My eyes closed, and for a split-second the face of the roadie who caught us backstage swam before them, then, vanished. Mr. Handsy separated from me again and let his eyes wander to the cleavage my tank offered up with no sense of subtlety whatsoever. I was dumbstruck. As someone who prides herself on being a word person, I was slightly stunned The Guy with the Hands was repeatedly leaving me speechless.

  "Uum," he moaned, sucking in his breath. He laid his forehead on mine. "Let me take you somewhere, and make love to you." He smiled invitingly. "I don't usually like to brag, but—"He brought his mouth to my ear again. "I'm good." His tongue circled my earlobe, and then he clenched it in his teeth, hard, painfully hard. A moan escaped. I couldn't help it. He was doing things to me. It was like he knew how to play me. "I'm really good." He yanked one side of my blouse and the tank strap under it and slid his mouth from shoulder to neck, sampling me briefly before whispering again. "In a few hours, you'll be screaming out my name, begging me for more." He lifted his head, his face inches away, gazing into my eyes with a burning intensity. "And I can go for hours. I'm not making any of this up. Let me prove it to you."

  I didn't doubt it. I licked my lips, my palms sweating. He placed his hands on the wall behind me, and I almost cried out, wanting to beg him to touch me again. He read my face, and the edges of his mouth curled up. "Danielle—" He knew my name. How come I didn't know his? His voice caressed my name, tantalizing me. "Danielle, I can give you orgasm after orgasm, so deep your entire body shudders, and then melts. I'll do you—" He ran a finger over my lips, his gaze watching their course. Then he dipped it into my mouth and trailed the moisture across my chest in a way that had me quivering. "—until your body can produce no more juices in response. And then I'll go down," he traced his finger along my stomach and wavered on my crotch, "between these beautiful thighs of yours, and my tongue will provide you with the wetness you need. And it will feel so good." He looked up at me again, smirking. "Do you believe me?"

  It was all I could do to nod my head a little. He chuckled. "And..." He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of my palm, then brushed his lips over my wrist, taking my racing pulse with his tongue. He moved my hand and placed it on his rigid crotch, laughing shakily. "Yeah. You got me turned on, baby. Do you feel how hard I am for you? And I'm not lacking in that department, either. I'm not trying to brag or be too cocky—" he laughed at his own pun "—I'm simply letting you know what you'll be in for if you come home with me tonight. That's all. So... To sum things up, I'm a fantastic fuck, and I really want to fuck you."

  This man, who said an equivalent of a couple dozen words to me all night, was now, somehow, a fount of information about himself. Very interesting, very scintillating information. He didn't come off as braggadocios either. He was simply, matter-of-factly, and quite bluntly, listing his good qualities.

  I cleared my throat. "Wow. You put it right out there, don't you?"

  He shrugged. "I thought it might save some time. I didn't know if I'd ever get another shot at you, so... But some ladies don't appreciate the direct approach."

  "No. No. I'm okay with that," I replied, my throat dry. "I'm a straight shooter myself." My voice wavered.

  He laughed again. "I like you. And if the way you shake your hips on the dance floor is any measure, I think you will be good in bed, too. Yes," he said slowly, "I think it would be a satisfying experience for both of us. So, what do you say?"

  I stared at him dumbly. What could I say? I grabbed the sides of his face and pressed my mouth to his.

  All of a sudden, someone tried to open the door to our right, but Mr. Handsy quickly jerked the handle, pulling it shut tight.

  Sam's voice floated through the door. "Dani? Are you all right?"

  Fine. Just tongue wrestling with a god.

  The god retreated from me a fraction. "You better tell your f
riend you're all right." He still held the door shut, staving off a complete interruption of our current activities.

  I struggled to bring my breathing back to normal. "Yes, Sam. I'm fine." Other than the fact that I'm contemplating taking this complete stranger to bed to answer my every physical need.

  And then, like a rain shower popping up unexpectedly on a spring day, I knew I couldn't. That wasn't who I was, and I couldn't pretend to be that person. I hung my head for a second, clearing it. "I'll be out in a minute."

  Perceptive as he was, my little sex stud seemed to sense a shift in my mood. Maybe that was what made him so good at the things he did. After all, it's difficult to satisfy a need or desire if you can't even pick up on it in the first place.

  "Listen. I'm sorry, I can't..."

  "You're married," he said sharply, pulling completely away from me and moving a bar on the door up to lock it in place. He stared at me from the opposite side of the hall.

  For a second, I was frightened. He locked me in. "No. No."

  "Have a steady boyfriend?"

  I waved my hands in front of me. "No. Nothing like that, I swear."

  "You're not attracted to me?"

  "Come on." I dropped my hands to my sides. "We both know that's not true."

  He smiled, seeming gratified by this, at least. "Then, you're screwed up."

  Although it hurt to hear him say it, it wasn't as if I didn't know it. I exhaled. "Bingo."