your demands.
It’s time I made my one-night stand.”
Chills raced down his back as she held the last note, strong and powerful. He hadn’t even had the chance to say hello and she was already shutting him down.
When the song ended, she did not look at him. She didn’t sneak a peek out of the corner of her eye, didn’t pivot in her chair, nothing. If she’d recognized him, it was clear she was ignoring him. “Whoo, y’all like that? That’s just the beginning—I have a whole album of sass coming your way!”
Anger—an old, familiar feeling—began to push through his veins, but Flash refused to let it win. It was entirely possible that Brooke Bonner had forgotten all about him after her whirlwind breakout year. There was also a distinct possibility that, if she did remember him, she didn’t hold him in any particularly high esteem.
He should’ve anticipated the song, though. He should’ve anticipated her anger. Anger was his second language. It came as naturally to him as breathing. But he hadn’t seen this attack coming.
Okay, yeah, there’d been a superhot one-night stand. They’d hooked up in her dressing room before the show, which had made her late to go on because leather miniskirts weren’t easy to work around. And it’d been good.
God, he still went hard just thinking about taking her against the wall in that tiny room, staring into her eyes as they both fought not to make a single sound. So damn good. And she had to have agreed, right? Because he’d hung around after the show, and when she’d seen him waiting for her, her entire face had lit up and she’d crooked her finger at him. They’d spent the rest of the night wrapped around each other in her hotel suite, having hot sex and ordering room service and, in between the seductions, making each other laugh.
They’d parted friends the next morning. He’d made damn sure to leave her with a smile on her face. He knew he hadn’t stopped grinning for days. Weeks, even.
So how had they gotten from that to this?
“My next song—now just wait for it,” she all but purred into the mike, “is called ‘How Many Licks’ because that was always the question, right?” The crowd hooted. “How many licks to get to the center of the sucker?”
“Three!” some jackass yelled.
“As many licks as it takes,” a different ass yelled. Brooke wagged a scolding finger at him.
Flash had to close his eyes and focus on his breathing. Behind his eyelids, the world was red. They weren’t disrespecting her. She’d chosen that title to get that exact reaction. She knew what she was doing and it wasn’t his job to defend her from every slight. He’d already tried that once and had the criminal record—and nemesis—to prove it. He’d busted Tex McGraw up pretty damn good because the man had dared to put Brooke’s name in his mouth.
Obviously, Flash understood why Tex hated him with a white-hot fury—Flash had knocked the man out of the All-Stars with a solid right hook. But Tex hadn’t let up any with his online attacks since then, and he sure as hell hadn’t accepted either of Flash’s apologies—not the court-mandated one and not the more sincere one Flash had made after a few months of sobriety. But it was fine. Flash had gotten to a place in his life where he could handle online swipes from Tex without being driven to fits of rage. That was how far Flash had come in a year.
Brooke launched into the song, which cut off any other outbursts. The red haze behind his eyes faded, and he was able to breathe without feeling like punching someone.
Not surprisingly, this song felt personal, too. The double entendres flew fast and furious, but the core of the song was about a guy who couldn’t take his licks and bailed.
A lot of people didn’t like Flash. He’d never made it particularly easy for anyone to like him, but at least he knew it. However, he’d never inspired such strong feelings that someone could write an entire album based on how much they hated him, for God’s sake.
Right. Instead of being insulted and letting it get to him, he was going to focus on feeling...flattered. Yeah, flattered. Not just any rodeo rider had an entire album dedicated to him, officially or unofficially. And if she publicly acknowledged that he was the inspiration, well, Flash was sure that his sister, Chloe, would find a way to spin Brooke’s new album as a positive for Flash and the All-Around All-Stars Rodeo. Probably.
Besides, Brooke had said herself the album wouldn’t be out for a few more months. She was still fine-tuning some of the material, still recording. Forewarned was forearmed. It was a good thing he was here tonight. He could work with Chloe to plan for a couple of different contingencies. His sister had already basically figured out that Flash was crushing hard on Brooke.
Although...she’d want to know why Brooke was so furious with him. And he did not have an answer for that. Brooke had kissed him goodbye. Thanked him for the amazing night. Told him to take care.
And that was it.
At least she hadn’t forgotten him, right? If there was one word that described Flash Lawrence, it was memorable.
When Brooke started the next song—titled “Not Going Down (Without a Fight)”—Flash almost couldn’t take it. What the hell? If it’d been any other club or dive bar in Nashville, he would’ve bailed. But when a songwriter or a singer started their set at the Bluebird, no one moved and no one talked—house rules. So he had no choice but to sit there and listen.
He’d spent a year trying to make sense of the fact that Brooke Bonner was an itch he hadn’t finished scratching. Before her, he’d bounced around bars and rodeos for four, maybe five years, picking up buckle bunnies and beautiful women in every town from Phoenix to Peoria while riding on the All-Stars circuit. Brooke Bonner should’ve been just one more woman. It’d been a one-night. Meaningless. Satisfying.
Except that that night had meant something to him and he’d spent nearly thirteen months unsatisfied.
Coming here tonight hadn’t been a good idea. But damn it, he needed to know if their night together had meant anything to her.
Something more than raw material.
Finally, her set ended and the crowd came back to life. Because she was the last act, she stayed in the center of the room and signed autographs and posed for pictures. Flash hung back at the bar, debating his next move. Should he wait for the crowd to thin and then approach her? Or would it be better if they didn’t have an audience? In that case, he should head out to the parking lot and wait by her car. Or was that too creepy?
Brooke glanced at him, a frown wrinkling her forehead before she quickly looked away. Nothing about that said invitation.
But he didn’t care about that little frown. He didn’t care about the songs or the radio silence that had lasted over a year.
He wanted to look her in the eye, make his case and then hear whatever she needed to get off her chest in person—without losing his temper. He wanted to know how they’d gotten from that wild night to this.
And if he didn’t get lucky...he’d walk.
But he wasn’t playing this guessing game.
He paid his tab and headed outside. The Bluebird was in a nondescript strip mall, and it took some work for Flash to work his
