Page 2 of Under His Sheets
That was the last thing I thought he’d say. “I was. We broke up. Now I’m just Randall.”
“Why break up? You were good.”
“Have you seen us?”
He nodded. “I have. At Sala Razzmatazz. It was a good show.” He opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. “I loved the cover you did of that Mike Patton song, ‘Deep Down.’ Wasn’t expecting that.” He handed me a glass and when I paused, hegestured to it. “I said I had drinks. You look like you could use one.”
“Thanks.” I accepted the glass and pushed all thoughts of stranger danger out of my head. “Yeah that Mike Patton stuff is a vibe.” And super niche. How did this guy know the albumMondo Cane?
He nodded once and turned his gaze back to the street below the window. There was surprisingly little noise from the protest inside his apartment, and though it had been a sultry night outside, it was cool, probably due to the ceiling fans.
“It is lucky I saw you. You could have been arrested. Being American might have made things difficult for you.”
“Losing my passport would do that too.” I finished my wine and without missing a beat, he refilled it.
“How did you manage that?”
“The same reason my band broke up. We got robbed two weeks ago, right after that show that you saw. All of our gear? Gone. Most of my personal stuff gone. That was the last straw. We were on our last few Euros we’d budgeted for the tour and couldn’t play the rest of the gigs we’d booked without buying all new instruments and equipment, so the guys decided to bail. I’ve been sitting around my hotel waiting for my appointment at the embassy, trying to figure out my next move. It was not my plan to get involved with a protest, I was just looking for a bar to spend my last night in Spain, potentially, before my appointment tomorrow. Then I can go home, not that I’m looking forward to that.”
Last sip. He refilled. I didn’t know why I was unloading my tale of woe on him, but he was the first person I’d spoken to in a couple of days and he carried himself like someone who…cared. I still wasn’t sure why he’d brought me to his home, though. No red flags had jumped out, but I was still a bit…confused.
“I suppose I was in the right place at the right time, then. Can’t have you being detained. Though it’s too bad you’re leaving.”
I was halfway through my third glass of what was exceptional wine when his words struck me. “Why’s that?” It almost sounded like he was flirting?
He moved my way with the bottle, filling my glass before I could finish.
He shrugged. “Seems a shame for you to leave España on a low note.”
For the first time, he made prolonged eye contact with me, and while I wouldn’t call it a smile, there was definitely humor in the curve of his lips, his dark red lips that cut dramatically into his olive skin. His short, dark brown, curly hair was lightly sprinkled with gray, making it tough to tell how old he was. Maybe he was prematurely gray? But I felt like, the way he carried himself, he was older than my twenty-seven years old. But not likeoldold.
The weight of the past two weeks seemed to dissipate as I looked at this incredible specimen of Spanish finery. He wasn’t much taller than me, maybe 5’10”, but the way he filled a pair of jeans made me want to weep, and when I’d been draped over his back, I’d felt his powerful grip, his exceptionally large deltoids, and he hadn’t faltered under my weight, which wasn’t insubstantial.
I’d been told I had a pretty face, pretty hair, and a stunning voice, but I certainly wasn’t built like most rangy, lanky singers in rock bands. My DNA meant no matter what I tried, I always carried extra padding around the middle and my assreallydidn’t quit. It hadn’t mattered to me much until MoonCraft fell prey to the number two band killer: number one is feuding siblings; number two is members getting romantic. In a momentof weakness, I blurted out my feelings for my guitar player, Rig, and two years into our tenure, I fell into his bed.
Such a cliché, hoping to make harmony with a bandmate. I should have known better. It wasn’t like MoonCraft was my first band. Our affair didn’t last long before he’d moved on, leaving me to pretend everything was okay. Now Rig and our drummer, Halo, weretogethertogether and headed back to the U.S., most likely making plans for a new band without me.
Four years I’d invested in them. I’d told myself that if I could manage to keep us focused, this could be the project that launched my career into the stratosphere. Perhaps band killer rule three should be European club tour.
“What do you suggest I do?” It must have been the wine, or maybe he was responding to my downtrodden forlorn look, but as he gazed back at me intently, I thought,It sure would be nice to not be alone tonight.
He took my glass and set it down, then tugged gently on the lapel of my cardigan, frowning at a small hole in the seam where the shoulder met the sleeve. Yeah, I looked exactly as if I’d seen better days. “You could use a little comfort tonight, no? Save your worries for tomorrow?”
“You make it a habit of rescuing American musicians from trouble?”
“Most certainly not.” His voice had a breathy tone, and it was higher-pitched than I would have thought by the way he got us out of a sticky situation. “I definitely don’t make it a habit of kissing American musicians in trouble, but sometimes…”
“You make an exception?”
“Sí. Do you make a habit of needing rescue?”
“Not really? But I appreciate what you did tonight.” I stepped closer to him, prompting him to put a hand on my waist, which, whatever, if this was going to happen he’d likely get a glimpse of what Ididn’thave going on. I might have winced though.
He gripped me a little tighter and his expression turned serious.
“You’re safe here. That protest and the aftermath will likely go on for hours. You’re welcome to stay, no expectations.”
“But possibilities?”
