Monty lifted his leg and pissed all over her bare foot.
“Monty, no!” Pike said.
But chaos ensued after that. Lark hopping and shrieking. Monty barking and spinning in a circle. And Pike doing his damnedest not to laugh.
He wasn’t entirely successful, and that earned him a glare from Lark and a happy, yipping bark from Monty. Finally, he gathered himself together enough to direct Monty to go to his crate so he could help Lark.
He showed her to the bathroom so she could rinse her leg off in the tub, and he cleaned up the mess in the living room—after sneaking Monty his treat and a belly rub.
He was halfway through a beer when Lark stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a pair of lacy pink panties and a bra that made her breasts look like icing-covered cupcakes. His dick jumped to attention—the response automatic.
She leaned in the doorway, posing like she was at a Victoria’s Secret cover shoot, and gave him the inviting smile she’d given him from the audience tonight. “Sorry about all of that. How about we start over and get back to why we’re here, hmm?”
Pike still had the bottle of beer pressed to his lips. He lowered it and set it on the counter.
Lark’s smile spread wider and she sauntered over with a heavy sway in her hips. She pressed her hand to his chest. “I have all kinds of ways we can apologize to each other. For getting mad at your dog, I was thinking this would make it up to you.”
She dragged her hand down and lowered to her knees. Pike stared down at her. She looked like a fucking porn star at his feet. Pouty lips with a fresh coat of pink lipstick, blond hair flowing down her back. A wet dream of a woman. But when she put her painted fingernails to the zipper on his jeans, he put his hand over hers. “Stand up.”
She blinked, the sultry look shifting to a perplexed one. “What?”
He helped Lark get to her feet. “Be right back.”
Her smile returned, though it had a confused tilt to it. “O-kay.”
He headed back to his bedroom for a minute, then returned to the kitchen. She was drinking his beer, putting lipstick marks on the bottle. He draped her dress on one of the bar stools, set a pair of his flip-flops on top of it, and handed her a few hundred-dollar bills. “For the shoes and a cab.”
She stared down at the money in her hand. “What?”
“This isn’t going to happen tonight.”
“Wait, you want me to leave? But I thought—”
“It’s time for you to go.” He was tempted to take a co-selfie with her. Hashtag: HookUpFail.
She stiffened like a rod had been shoved up her back and made these little sounds of disbelief—like she was trying to come up with a really good insult but couldn’t think of any.
When she obviously couldn’t string anything worthy together, she shoved on his flip-flops, which looked like flippers on her small feet, and yanked her dress over her head. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
He dumped the beer in the sink, bored.
His lack of response brought a new level of hatred glowing in her eyes. “Is this about the dog? Because that’s just stupid. How was I supposed to know he was abused?”
He walked to his front door and pulled it open. “You never know where anyone’s scars are. Doesn’t mean you get a pass to hurt them.”
She reared back like he’d slapped her. Then her lips pressed together and she flounced out the door, muttering something about hoping that the dumb dog kept him warm tonight.
He shut the door without watching her go and leaned against it, absorbing the quiet of the condo, relief instead of disappointment settling in. Hookup fail, yes. But even he had standards. He’d rather fuck his fist than spend another second with Duckface the Puppy Poker.
A year ago, he might’ve just written it off and taken her to bed anyway. What did it matter if a woman was shallow? It wasn’t like they’d be seeing each other again. Plus, he’d always hated sleeping alone in a house. But now he couldn’t stomach the thought of spending another moment with a woman like that.
Maybe he was getting used to being by himself. After his roommate, Foster, had moved out to live with his girlfriend last year, Pike had felt that old need to always have people over. Mostly of the naked female variety. But for the last few months, he’d been so busy with band stuff and working at his music studio on the side that he hadn’t sought out that brand of companionship very often. He hadn’t even gone to The Ranch, the kink resort he and his friends belonged to, in at least three months. Tonight had been the first night he’d done the hookup-after-a-show thing in a while.
Now he remembered why he’d backed off from this kind of thing. He had no issue being someone’s one-night stand. Most of the time, he preferred things that way. But now that he’d seen how Foster and Cela were together, how explosive the chemistry could be when two people connected like that, he could see how superficial this other shit was in comparison. Women fucked his type. The bad boy. The drummer. Whatever. They didn’t fuck him.
And he’d been guilty of the same. He’d fuck the groupie, the model, the B actress. If not for Monty chewing Lark’s shoe tonight, he would’ve never known that the woman was capable of hurting a dog for something as inconsequential as a shoe. Because he didn’t know her.
For some reason, that dug into him like a burr, annoying the shit out of him.