Male voice coming from the bar ramp.
Andrew’s eyes snap over before mine do.
Mikey’s are already there.
Nico chokes hard on his drink when he sees who it is.
I turn,
and my gaze slams into cruel cheekbones,
a pair of bourbon eyes,
and tattoos spilling down a neck and two arms.
Neon Grey.
Indie artist who doesn’t belong to a genre.
He haunts them.
Slides through R&B,
borrows country,
leaves pop gasping in his wake.
You can’t pin him down in a genre
or with a label.
Girls are following him,
a halo of clenched thighs.
“Well, fuck—” He chuckles. “You don’t usually walk floors that stick to your heels.”
“And I hear Vice isn’t usually full of almosts.” I shrug. “New for both of us.”
He laughs, pulling me close.
One hand slips low on my spine.
The other climbs too high up my side.
I brace,
track his hands,
clenching back the flinch.
“Yeah, aight. Still got that dangerous mouth on you,” he says in my ear.
Andrew’s watching,
hip against the booth,
one brow up,
