Bad Influence. Kristin Hardy
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years have thought she’d want to go see him play. Further proof that the world was a surprising place. The downside was that now it left her walking the waterfront, going from place to place.
She’d already made her way down Stearns Wharf. No sign of him there, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. He didn’t seem the type to play some glossy restaurant or squeaky-clean club. She saw him more at a tavern, the kind with sawdust on the floor and pool tables in the back. Of course, the Santa Barbara waterfront rents didn’t lend themselves to those kinds of establishments, which left her scratching her head.
Okay, so maybe it hadn’t been such a brilliant idea after all. But after spending days in the comparative isolation of her grandfather’s house, the idea of getting out for a few hours had been irresistible. It had been a nice change of pace to throw on a skirt and some heels and lipstick.
And getting a look or two from the guys she passed was nice, too.
The problem was, she was running out of places to try. Paige walked back out into the warm evening and took stock. She was at the end of the waterfront. There was one more place, probably a long shot, but she really ought to check it out.
Maybe she’d even have herself a drink while she was at it.
The closer she got, the less likely the drink part seemed. But she had a sudden feeling she was going to find Zach.
A flickering neon sign read Eddie’s. The window held a lighted sign advertising genuine draft beer. She knew it was the place before she ever got near the door, and when she did, she could hear it: the soft, silky blues with its cadence of sex.
The bouncer sported tattoos that looked as if they’d been done in a jailhouse with ballpoint-pen ink. What the X’s tattooed on his beefy bicep stood for, she didn’t want to know. Instead she shoved her five at him, ignoring his look, and stepped hastily through the door.
Eddie’s was no more prepossessing inside than out. It was cramped and dim, hot with the warmth of too many bodies. Smoke drifted near the ceiling in blithe violation of antismoking ordinances. A trio of pool tables lined the side wall. The band stood at the back. A few people danced—mostly women, Paige noticed. She walked forward, glancing at the stage.
And stopped in her tracks.
She’d always been a little amused at her friends who fell head over heels for man after man. Not the ones like Sabrina or Kelly, who’d found relationships that were real and lasting, but the ones who bounced from one infatuation to the next, the ones who got breathless and starry-eyed talking about their latest “pash,” at least until the magic wore off.
It had never hit her like that. Mild interest, yes. Attraction, sure. But nothing overwhelming. Nothing that she couldn’t manage. In Zach Reed’s case, it wasn’t even mild interest, just annoyance.
At least not until that moment when she stood in the dark bar staring at him up onstage.
Then it just morphed instantly into pure lust.
He wore his usual T-shirt and jeans, but under the lights, drawing hot and nasty blues from a beat-up electric, he was riveting. He wasn’t a showman. He didn’t strut or flail or talk to the crowd. He just stood and played as though he were the only one in the room, his eyes half-closed, his hands sliding up and down the fret board with the same absent grace she imagined he might use caressing a woman.
Agile and strong. She couldn’t help imagining those fingers against her skin. How would they feel on her body? How would he feel on her body? She swallowed and glanced up.
Only to see him staring at her with eyes so hot and dark they seemed to burn right through her, binding them together with an arc of energy. Her knees turned to water as he hit a hard chord once, twice, three times to end the song.
The room erupted in applause and ear-piercing whistles. She glanced around. A chair, a stool…she had to find somewhere to sit and soon. When she saw an open bar stool, she slid onto it thankfully, mostly because her legs wouldn’t hold her anymore.
Zach’s mouth curved, giving her the uneasy feeling that he knew exactly the effect he had on her. With a nod to the backing band, he launched into a new number, and pulled her under his spell.
She felt it, she knew it as it was happening. It was, purely and simply, the aural equivalent of sex. Before, the beat had been faster, the solos more aggressive. Now, the pace was slower, a rhythmic pulse that thudded into her system and had her moving to it without volition in the same way a woman’s hips moved helplessly to the touch of a man.
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