Straddling the Line Read online

  Josey didn’t particularly like the way the senior Bolton was eyeing her—and she especially didn’t like being a “what.” Not that she could be sure—he still had on his sunglasses—but she got the distinct feeling he was undressing her with his eyes.

  Ben’s shoulders flexed. “I told you, I’m busy.” He reached over and picked up his phone. His motions seemed calm, but she could sense the coiled tension just below the surface.

  The worst place in the world had to be the middle of a Bolton brawl, because it sure looked like all three of them were ready to throw down, here and now. Maybe that’s why the whole office was done in metal. Easier to wash off the blood.

  “Cassie, please escort our guest to her car,” he said, icy daggers coming off his words. He set the phone back down, positioning his body just a fraction more between Josey and his father.

  No one moved; no one said a thing. She’d been scared before, sure. She’d talked her way out of being felt up by associates of her grandfather; she’d beaten the living crap out of a boy who’d thought she was an easy target back in high school. But this? Hands down, the scariest situation she’d ever gotten herself into.

  Cass appeared, shoving her way into the room. “Damn, Bruce, you’re scaring her,” she said, hip-checking the older man out of the way. “Come on,” she said to Josey. “Let them fight it out in private.”

  Ben nodded, a small movement that she took to mean she was safe with the only other woman in the place. Moving slowly, she stepped around the desk, careful to avoid the older man. The younger one gave her plenty of room before he favored her with a familiar-looking nod that bordered on a polite bow.

  “Miss White Plume,” Ben called to her as soon as she was clear of his office’s threshold. “Good luck.”

  Cass shut the door, which wasn’t enough to block the sound of a battle royal erupting behind it. Josey didn’t get the chance to wish him the same.

  She had the feeling she’d just about used up all of her luck for the day.

  Two

  Stick’s chord from “Dirty Deed Done Dirt Cheap” still hung in the air as Ben attacked his drums with a wild energy for the next song. Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” was his best song, one he could literally beat the hell out of.

  The groupies crowded around the front of the stage at The Horny Toad Bar screamed as Ben tore through his big solo. Stick, his oldest friend in the world, came in hard on the guitar riff, and—in that brief moment before Rex started singing—Ben could pretend that the Rapid City Rollers were a real rock band, not a weekend cover band.

  Try his best, though, Rex couldn’t come close to David Lee Roth—or Sammy Hagar, for that matter—so the illusion that Ben was a professional drummer never lasted. Sure, they were popular here, but South Dakota didn’t have a lot of people in it. Still, this was Ben’s song, and he gave it his all. The crowd was on its feet, somewhere between dancing and moshing in drunken delight.

  Saturday nights were the best. For one long night once a week, Ben wasn’t a CFO. He didn’t have to worry about Billy’s slow production pace costing the company too much money. He didn’t care if the banks floated him the stop-gap loans he needed. He could forget about whatever Bobby was screwing around with. And most of all, he didn’t even have to think about his father, who was determined to grind the family business into the ground just to prove that his way was not only better than Ben’s way, but that his way was the only way. For one night a week, Ben didn’t have to care about how Dad looked at him with nothing but disappointment in his eyes. None of that mattered. On Saturday nights, Ben was a drummer. That was all.

  He loved having something he could beat the hell out of, over and over, but instead of leaving destruction in his wake like Dad did, he made something that he loved—something beautiful, in its own brutal way. Something that other people loved, too. It wasn’t the same as Billy’s bikes, but it was Ben’s and Ben’s alone. A week’s worth of frustration went into each beat.

  Something was different tonight. Rex was hitting most of the high notes, and the crowd was eating it up. The Horny Toad was one of their best gigs—they played here once a month. Ben should be enjoying himself. But no matter how hard he hit his drums, he couldn’t get the sound of one Josette White Plume saying, “Isn’t there…anything I can do to change your mind?” out of his head.

  That voice had been floating around in his dreams for eight freaking days now, and he was damn tired of it. It had gotten to the point where he’d begun to think he should have taken her up on her offer—get her out of his system before she’d gotten into it.

  The hell of it was that he couldn’t quite nail down why he was stuck on her. Sure, she’d been beautiful—but the Horny Toad was loaded with hot chicks tonight. Yeah, she was probably the smartest woman he’d talked to in weeks—months, even. And, okay, he’d have to admit that her fiery, take-no-prisoners business pitch combined with that note of vulnerability at the end, right before his family had crashed the joint, had made his body throb.

  But she was just a woman. Maybe that was it, he thought as he wailed away on his drums. Maybe it had just been too long since he’d had a woman. Hell.

  Stick held the high note at the end for an extra beat while Ben let the cymbals have it at the end. Their eyes met and they nodded in time, cutting off at the same moment. The crowd howled for more, which was a nice feeling. Someone threw a bra onto the stage, which Toadie, the bassist, snatched up and waved in victory. “We’ll be back after a little meet ’n’ greet break,” Rex announced, tossing his guitar pick to an unnaturally busty blonde.

  “You coming?” Stick asked as the house music filled the bar. Rex and Toadie had already been enveloped by the groupies, and Ben knew Stick was itching to get out there and join them.

  Ben didn’t go anymore, but Stick always asked. He was a good friend. “No,” he started to say, but then a woman caught his eye.

  She was tall and lean and wearing a white sequined tank top over a nice chest that caught some of the stage lights and made her glow, even though he was wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar. But that wasn’t what drew his attention. No, something about the way she was looking at him…

  No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  The woman turned to talk to someone else, but then glanced back over her shoulder at him. Cascades of dark hair spilled down her back, coming to an end just above the kind of ass that would haunt a man. He’d caught just a glimpse of her walking out of his office before Dad and Billy had erupted into World War III, but he wasn’t likely to forget it anytime soon.

  No doubt about it. Josette White Plume was in the house.

  “Yeah,” he told Stick, “I think I will.” Together, they hopped off the side of the stage and ducked around the chicken wire.

  Someone grabbed his butt, and a few chicks tried to throw themselves in front of him, but Ben ignored them all. He was focused on the woman in the sequined top.

  Maybe he was wrong, he thought as he got closer. Her back was still to him, and all that hair was throwing him off. The woman who’d come to his office had had a twist pinned up in a classy, elegant style that matched her classy, sleek dress. The woman a few feet away from him wore skintight jeans and had long hair that hung in loose curls. He couldn’t tell about the color in this light, but he was sure he’d recognize that reddish black anywhere.

  He closed the remaining distance, grabbed the woman’s bare arm and spun her around. She tried to jerk away with such force that it pulled him into her. His sunglasses came off in the resulting jostling.

  “Hey!” A smaller woman—clearly Native American—pushed her way between Ben and his prey. “Get your hands off her, you creep!”

  Now that he had her face-to-face, without his sunglasses, he could see the red in her hair—and the fire in her eyes. “What the— Oh!” Recognition set in, and the anger became shock. “Ben?”

  Ben glanced down at his hand and was surprised to see that he was still holding her. Her skin was creamy smoot
h against his. In her other hand, she held a bottle. “What are you doing here?”

  “Who’s asking?” the smaller woman demanded. She sounded comfortable being the boss.

  “No, Jenny—let me explain.”

  “What’s to explain?” The woman named Jenny shoved Ben’s chest. “He can’t just grab you, Josey.”

  Josey. God, what a pretty name. Would he ever get this woman out of his head?

  Josette—Josey—blushed. “Jenny, this is Ben Bolton, CFO of Crazy Horse Choppers.”

  “Wait—you’re the guy who didn’t give us anything?” She sniffed in distaste. Ben decided he kind of liked Jenny. She had spunk.

  But Josey—Josey had fire. The heat coming off that woman was making him sweat with need. “Jenny! Ben,” she went on, hell-bent on formal introductions in the middle of one of the grimier bars in the state, “this is Jenny Wahwasuck. She’s one of the teachers at our new school.”

  “And her cousin, so you just watch yourself, buddy.” Jenny crossed her arms and glared at him.

  Someone bumped him from behind, shoving him into Josey. Jenny made loud noises of protest.

  Screw this. He couldn’t find out what she was doing here in the middle of the bar with her cousin watching him like a hawk. He leaned in close to whisper, “I need to talk to you—alone,” in Josey’s ear—which was a mistake. Up close, he could smell her scent, something light and clean, with a hint of citrus. She smelled delicious.

  It took all of his willpower to lean back, but he didn’t get far. Instead, he found himself staring into her big brown eyes. The slick, overconfident ballbuster who’d talked her way into his office was gone, and in her place was someone who looked surprisingly sweet and vulnerable—considering the bar they were in.

  She nodded and turned to her cousin. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  “Wait—what? No way!” Jenny tried to shove Ben back, but he didn’t give her any leeway this time.

  “It’s about the school,” Josey said.

  Except it wasn’t. But if that was the lie that worked, he was willing to nod and play along. Jenny rolled her eyes in frustration, but turned to Ben and said, “If she’s not back here in one piece in ten minutes…”

  “I just want to talk to her.”

  The hell he did. He wanted to do everything but talk, a fact made all the more clear when Josey slipped her hand into his and waited for him to lead her away.

  Ben plowed through the crowd like a bulldozer. There was only one place quiet enough to not have a conversation in this joint—the small closet that served as the band’s dressing room.

  As he worked his way back there, two conflicting emotions ran headlong into each other. First off, he was pissed. Saturday night was his night off. He didn’t have to think about people taking and taking and taking from him until he had nothing left to give, about how he never got anything back. He didn’t want to think about some school in the middle of nowhere, and he sure as hell didn’t want to have to think about the bottom line.

  The other thing barreling through his thoughts was the way Josey had laced her fingers with his, the way his thumb was stroking small circles around her palm and the way he wanted to bury his face in her hair and find out if she tasted of oranges or limes.

  He pulled her into the dressing room with more force than he needed—she came willingly—and slammed the door shut. Don’t touch her, he told himself, because touching her again would be a mistake, and Ben wasn’t the kind of guy who made mistakes. He was the kind of guy who fixed other people’s mistakes.

  Still, that didn’t explain why she was backed against the wall, trapped between his arms. Hey, at least he wasn’t touching her.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded, keeping his voice low. No need to shout, not when he was less than a foot from her face.

  She licked her lips. They were a deep plum color, like a fine wine begging to be savored.

  Not. Touching. Her.

  “Jenny’s son is at her mother’s house. It’s a girl’s night out….” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him through thick lashes.

  He was not going to fall for that old trick—no matter how well it was working. “You told her we were going to talk about the school. I already said no. How did you track me down?”

  “I came to hear the band.” Her voice had dropped to a feather whisper. He couldn’t help it if he had to lean in closer to hear it. “I came for the music.”

  “Bull.” No way did he believe that—not even if he really wanted to.

  She swallowed, then one hand reached up and traced his cheek. He wasn’t touching her, but the mistake was huge nonetheless. Heat poured into him, all coming from that one, single touch.

  Just a woman, he told himself. He just needed a woman, and she fit the bill. That didn’t explain why he couldn’t look at her and feel her at the same time without doing something he knew he’d regret, so he shut his eyes. It didn’t block out the sound of her voice, though.

  “I’ve seen you play before.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Fat Louie’s—late last March, although I forget the day. The singer was different that night.” Her other hand palmed his other cheek. So soft. So sweet. “Not quite as good as this guy, but not bad.”

  Bobby had taken the mic that night—Rex had the flu. She wouldn’t know that unless she was telling the truth… but Bobby had left with a smokin’ hot woman that night, and raved about the sex for weeks after that. “Are you some kind of groupie? Did you go home with him?”

  “I’m a corporate fundraiser.” Her voice packed more heat this time, taking his challenge head-on. “I don’t do one-night stands, and I don’t screw men I don’t know.”

  His body throbbed. Two tense meetings—did this qualify as knowing each other? Was screwing on the table? Damn. It had been too long since he’d had a woman.

  “Before that, it was at Bob’s Roadhouse,” she went on. “I think that one was right before Thanksgiving. You did a metal version of ‘Over the River.’” Her thumbs traced his cheeks. Yeah, he remembered doing that. Rex hadn’t stopped with the stupid “stuffing the turkey” jokes all night long.

  He felt his head dip, although he had no idea if she was pulling him or if he was doing it himself.

  “And before that—”

  He kissed her before he could stop himself. His tongue hit her lips, and she opened for him. Lemons. She tasted like lemonade, sweet and tart and just right. She made a small mewing sound in his mouth, a sound of surrender.

  Somehow, he managed to break away from her. He had to, before he did something vulgar like have sex with a woman he barely knew in a closet in a bar.

  “I didn’t know.” Her voice shook this time. “I should have guessed—the way you drummed the desk with that pen—but I didn’t recognize you. You always wear the sunglasses and the bandanna…. I didn’t know it was you.”

  He kissed her again, rougher this time. His teeth nipped at her lower lip before his tongue tangled with hers. He shouldn’t believe her, but he wanted to, more than he’d wanted anything else. He wanted to believe that this beautiful, intelligent woman liked his music without wanting anything else from him. That she might like him without wanting shop equipment or school supplies or anything.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. He felt her stiff nipples press against his chest, felt the heat when she tilted her hips up into his. God, she really wanted him, as much as he wanted her.

  He wanted to believe her.

  But he couldn’t.

  He shoved himself away with everything he had. He sucked in air—which didn’t help, because her scent hung around him. Her chest—in all its glory—was heaving, a sight he’d love to behold any other day. He swiped his hand across his mouth in a desperate attempt to erase her sweetness. Mistake. He’d made a mistake, but he couldn’t tell who he was madder with—her, or himself. “Does that work?” he demanded.

  “Does what work?” She had the damn nerve
to look innocent and confused.

  “That—using sex to trap me.” And he’d fallen right into it. Damn it, skin-to-skin contact was a major mistake. “Does that get you what you want?”

  He braced himself for the crack across the face—he expected nothing less than outright condemnation and denial from her—but she didn’t smack him. Instead, a look of pain crossed her face for a second before it disappeared underneath something else. Something sad, which made him feel like the world’s biggest jerk. “You already said no—I wasn’t—”

  Her eyes skimmed over his arms—and found his tats. Damn sleeveless T-shirts, he cursed silently. She could see the one that had Mom’s birth—and death—date. He thought about turning the other way, but that would be worse, because then she’d see the one for Moose, his dog. He crossed his arms and gave her his meanest stare. She didn’t even blink.

  For a blinding second, he hated her—the way she seemed to look right into him, the way she made him feel like hell for being a jerk, the way she had the nerve to feel bad for him—he hated all of it.

  When the hell would this break end? If he didn’t start beating his drums again right now, he was going to have to punch a wall or something.

  Then she did something even weirder. She came to him, touched his tats and whispered, “I’m sorry.” And then she kissed him. After he’d all but called her a slut to her face, she kissed him—again.

  This was different—softer, easier. Against his will, his arms uncrossed and then folded again, with her inside them. Her weight was warm and comfortable against his chest. She fit well there.

  Something strange happened. The solitary quiet he usually felt when he thought about Mom seemed less solitary. It almost seemed like Josey White Plume understood how alone he felt surrounded by his brothers, how hard it was to always have to be the responsible one, how exhausting the daily battle with his father was, how damn tired he was of not being good enough. She understood it all and was happy to take some of the burden off his shoulders.