“You know what I’d like to do for a hobby?” Linx asked, staring at the neck of the bottle a beat before glancing to his friend-slash-babysitter.
Brek raised his eyebrows.
On his hobby quest, Linx had adopted a cat, got a motorcycle through a questionable poker game, bought a Porsche, purchased a house, broken it off with Denver (the woman, not the city), and hung out with Brek and his family.
Linx leaned forward, so he held Brek’s stare. “I’d like to make some fucking music.”
Yeah, right. He couldn’t make music because the rest of the band was unavailable.
“There’s the stage.” Brek did a subtle chin jerk toward the stage where the band of the night jammed to a Dimefront cover in a blatant attempt to woo Linx’s attention. “I’m sure those guys would dig having an artist of your magnitude and questionable charm jump in.”
That was a negative. “I don’t know those guys. Can’t make music with a band I don’t know.”
Brek wasn’t the only one who had standards.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” he said.
Linx glanced back to the stage, his lips pressed thin.
Yeah, they were a talented group. With a little push, they could be better than great.
A mix of old and young. The bassist had to be going on seventy, but he was all in with his commitment to rock. The lead looked like he came straight from an office job, but he’d ditched his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows to show off a pretty kick ass array of ink. And the drummer and keyboard guy looked young and cocky, like they had the entire world ahead of them to fuck up.
Ahhh…to be young and naïve.
“Tomorrow?” Linx turned back to Brek and pointedly changed the subject. “I’ll bring Gibson to your place?”
Brek’s toddler loved Linx’s cat. That wasn’t a surprise. Gibson was a fluff ball of easy-to-love.
“Works for me.” Brek went back to barkeeping, what with his aborted attempt to get Linx on stage failing and all that.
Linx took a swig of his ginger ale. Brek had transferred the fake brew into an actual beer bottle. Linx couldn’t go around losing street cred. What sort of image would that make?
He didn’t have a problem with it, per se. Didn’t have a problem with other people drinking. He just learned early in his life that he preferred to be sharp. After watching one of their drummers hit rehab for the fourth time, he officially made the call that he was 95 percent dry. He rarely partook in the real deal.
Except champagne.
Damn. He enjoyed an excellent champagne.
That choice didn’t really mesh with his rocker vibe, though.
“You should have Velma ask her friend Becca to stop by and meet Gibson.” Oh yes, Becca with the brown hair and brown eyes and gorgeous dimple on her right cheek.
“You know you can’t go poking your dick anywhere near Velma’s friends,” Brek said, low.
Linx nodded because, yeah, he knew.
“Can I show her my cat at least?” he asked.
“No.”
Okay, fine. Brek was firm on this one. Still, Linx’s gaze moseyed right on over the delectable brunette with the gorgeous smile and legs that went on and on for lightyears. There was something about her. Something familiar. Something that tickled the back of his brain.
“You’re sure I don’t know her?”
And, by know her, he meant had crazy sex with her while he was on tour.
Becca was absolutely Linx’s type. All that hair. That body. Those brown eyes. He gnawed at his bottom lip and forced himself to look back at Brek’s ugly face.
